18. Summer
Chapter 18
Summer
I roll over on the lumpy motel bed and blink. The red blocky letters against the black background of the clock scream at me as they blink 7:00 a.m. in time with the blaring alarm.
Reaching out, I smack the clock, nearly crying in relief at the silence.
There wasn’t much sleep for me last night. I spent close to two hours methodically traversing the city’s transportation systems, back and forth, just as I had planned in case they found me.
After trusting I wasn’t followed, I darted into a run-down motel for the night. I showered and set myself up at the table and chair by the window to watch with the curtain drawn.
I had half the mind to call Shelly but thought better of it. I can’t involve her.
I’d just pulled out my second cannoli when my phone dinged. Snatching it, I had expected it to be the unknown number, and almost fell back in my chair when I saw Kieran’s name. At that moment, I almost reached out for help. He seems like a man with some influence. Perhaps he’d have a lawyer who could help me, or someone in law enforcement that might be able to protect me.
But when I opened his message to see the most adorable picture of Aoife, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk eating her cannoli, my chest cracked. I can’t involve him. I could never expose Aoife. So I ignored the message and rolled into bed around 3:00 a.m. unable to stay awake another minute longer.
Flailing my legs, I kick the covers off myself and then sit up to rub my tired eyes. I groan as I stand, stretching both hands high in the air.
After moving to the window, I pull back the curtain, just enough to peek outside. I debate my next move while chewing my lip. I need to move on to the phase two of my plan, but my chest tightens as I think about leaving.
Deuce is still back at my apartment. I at least need to go check on him. Though, I can’t help but wonder … Have they found my home? Do they know where I live? I shouldn’t risk it—going back.
Quickly, I go to the bathroom, splashing cold water over my face and wipe it with a towel. When I glance in the mirror, my face free from makeup, I almost see that younger girl. The one I used to be before. I was obsessed with myself and what my family name could do for me—despite the warnings.
In a way, I’m glad she’s gone. I enjoy my life here in Boston. It wasn’t easy to get here.
Reaching into my purse, I grab a hair tie to pull my hair back. I cringe, looking at my jumpsuit from yesterday hanging over the shower rod. I stripped out of it last night, sleeping in my underwear and cami, knowing I’d have to rewear it.
Sliding it on, I glance at my phone and at the photo of Aoife. Jeez, I’m going to miss my kids. I wish … I wish I could say goodbye or something.
One thing at a time, Summer. Maybe it’s possible.
With one last glance around the dated room, I scuff my flats against the stained puke-colored carpet. Here goes nothing: get Deuce and get the hell out of here.
It takes me another two hours to finagle my way to the train stop. I take several buses, passing the stop I need to get off at by two stops. Then I wait for the bus to take me back and hop on the green line before I notice a bald man was following me. So, I swap to the red line before backtracking yet again.
Finally, making it to my stop, I pull my scarf over my head and wrap my jacket tight around me and climb the slopping hill of a sidewalk to the music shop.
It’s Saturday, no one is at the store, and the side door up to my upstairs apartment is closed. I slink around to the alleyway, trying to avoid the streets as much as possible.
A dark sedan drives by slowly and I flatten myself against the bricks in the shadows.
My heart thuds deep in my chest, and my stomach churns at the idea of someone spotting me.
When the coast is clear, I move to the door, finding it unlocked. The pit in my stomach moves to my throat and I struggle to swallow. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.
Silently, I tiptoe up the steps, pausing several paces from the top. I stifle a gasp, smacking a hand over my mouth at the sight of the door to my apartment kicked in. The deadbolts are cut through.
No .
I listen for several seconds.
Hearing no movement, I run up the last few steps and push open the door. There’s trash everywhere around my apartment, and someone has slit the couch cushions and ripped the mattress off my bed.
Not only do they know who I am, they’ve found me. “Deuce! Deuce!” I whisper yell. No meows answer me, and I panic. “Deuce!”
Diving to my knees, I look under the bed to find nothing. I frantically search around the apartment, crawling over the broken lamp knocked to the ground and around to the open kitchenette cabinets.
I jump up to search the cabinet for my flour canister. Relieved to see the yellow tin unbroken, I open it, reaching down into the white flour. The fine dust slips through my fingers as I poke around through the smooth powder for my key.
Two years ago, when I finally had the extra money, I paid for a locker at Boston Harbor. I needed a spot to store a go-bag outside of my home. The options to get out of the city are shockingly good between chartering a boat or sneaking aboard one.
My fingertips graze the key near the bottom, and I pull it up, running to the sink to rinse off my hands. Stepping over my clothes, I move to the bathroom, checking behind the tub curtain for Deuce. Where is he?
Tears slowly come, and I smack them away before they can fall. I need to move on. I need to get my bag and leave Boston. He may have escaped. Maybe he darted out when they were ransacking my place.
I always knew it was a possibility. But after nearly seven years, I’ve grown complacent, convincing myself they might have forgotten me—or, better yet, chosen to move on. I don’t know who’s identified me, but the fact they know I’m here means I’m no longer safe.
I sniff and rub the back of my hand across my nose, taking one last look around my trashed apartment. I’ll need to send my landlord a secure message once I’m somewhere safe. I’ll wire him money for the damages and break my lease when I’m able to breathe.
Turning, I move back toward the door, then slowly descend the steps to peek out onto the sidewalk. When I don’t see anyone, I dart out and spring for the alleyway.
Halfway past the rusted green dumpster, there’s a loud meow.
“Deuce!”
Another meow.
I pull at the dumpster, yanking it away from the brick building. Deuce brushes up against the wall, like he’d only been out for a Saturday morning stroll. He looks at me and meows, and I giggle with disbelief while reaching out to grab him.
“I’m so glad I found you,” I whisper into his ear as I tuck him into my closed coat.
I zip him in the best I can. Mostly because I’m not so sure the trains would take kindly to me flippantly bringing a cat aboard.
With Deuce secure and a sigh of relief, I empty my purse into the dumpster, careful to keep my wallet and harbor key. Then, I run.
* * *
I want to vomit.
My stomach roils as I make my way on the cobblestone pathway along the water, and I drag my hand over the thick black chain separating the walkway and the marina. Almost as if I need it to hold me upright, keep me steady.
There are too many people here. The Boston Harbor is alive it seems. The weather today is way too nice to keep people indoors, so boats, anywhere from humble sailboats to lavish yachts, bob around the marina.
Seagulls soar above me, and I tip my head back, sucking in a deep breath of salty tang which adds to my nauseous stomach. A boat’s horn blasts, and I startle, moving toward the pier.
As I scan my surroundings and land on the aquarium, I can’t help but smile. The fun of that day, wrapped in the emotion from my past several interactions with Kieran—I rub my chest.
But as quickly as those memories surface, they’re flushed down, and a lump forms in my throat as I realize I probably won’t see the O’Donnells again.
I pass several families with kids as they enjoy this abnormally nice day, particularly for the beginning of spring. Even several food vendors have deemed it warm enough to set up their food carts. The smell of cooked seafood wafts around, easily reminding me I haven’t had anything since the cannoli yesterday.
When I make it to the small stack of lockers at the pier, I glance over my shoulder and wait for the older man with a cane to close his and move on before I shuffle in.
Deuce hisses as I reach into my coat pocket and yank out the key.
“Shhh!” I chide with one more glance over my shoulder.
Then, sliding the key into the blue metal lock, I open the locker with an audible click. There’s one hook in the back, and there hangs my green backpack, a tennis racket keychain attached to the front zipper. It’s one of the few items I had with me those seven years ago.
I run a thumb over the smooth acrylic, jumping when another locker near me slams shut. After pulling out the bag, I heave it over my shoulder and set the key to my locker inside before shutting the door.
Deciding it’s best to get back to the trains with all these people, I walk back the way I came. The smell of boat fuel is sharp, and when Deuce becomes too restless in my coat, I stop at a wooden bench overlooking the marina.
I set my backpack on the bench, leaning over to unzip the main compartment. Inside, Ziploc bags with two outfits and travel toiletries are crammed at the bottom. But on top, where my passport and the package of money should be—there’s nothing.
I gulp.
Anxiously, I rummage through the bag, zipping up the main compartment and fumbling to open the smaller one, desperate to search inside. A warm splash hits my cheek, and I take a breath, trying to keep it together.
“No,” I whisper to myself. I’m limited without my passport. I have some money and a card in my wallet, but I had more stashed in here. I panic. The mileage, the radius I can travel just shrunk a whole lot.
Where is far enough? Should I run? Am I avoiding the inevitable?
Deuce hisses again as I frantically probe the bag, continuing to search. Just as my hand brushes against the plastic pouch, a sweet, tiny voice startles me, making my heart plummet.
“Miss Summer?”