Chapter 2 #2
Intelligence gathering.
Using me to hurt my family.
I put two bullets in his chest and one in his head.
Left him in an alley in Houston. Never told anyone. Never will.
"I don't know," I lie. "Why would I know?"
"Because you knew him. Because you might remember something that could help." Elfe's quiet for a moment. "Helle, I need you to come home."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. I know you're scared. I know Dad said things—"
"He said I was a disappointment. A failure. That I betrayed the family worse than any enemy." The words still hurt, sharp as the day he said them. "Why would I come back to that?"
"Because he's your father. Because he's dying, and they're torturing him, and maybe you can help." Her voice breaks. "Please. I can't do this alone."
"You have Oskar—"
"I need my sister." The words hit like bullets.
I need my sister.
When's the last time someone needed me?
When's the last time I was anything but a burden, a disappointment, a cautionary tale?
"I don't know if I can help."
"You know him. Andrés. You know things about him that might give us leverage. Where he lived, who his friends were, anything." She's grasping. "Please. I'm begging you. Just come home for a few days. If you can't help, fine. But at least try."
I think about the note in my pocket.
Tell your sister hello.
They know where I am. They know who I am.
Coming home won't make me any less safe—I'm not safe here. Maybe I never was.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll come home. But Elfe—" I have to tell her. Have to warn her. "They know where I am. Los Coyotes. They've been watching me. They left me a note today. 'Tell your sister hello.'"
Silence greets me on the other end.
"Fuck. Okay. Get out of there. Now. Don't go back to your apartment if you can help it. Just get on your bike and head to Florida."
"I need to tell my boss—"
"Do it fast. Then go." I can hear her moving, probably pacing. "I'll let Oskar know you're coming. He'll have people watching for you. Just get here safely."
"Elfe?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry. For everything."
"We'll talk when you get here. Just—be careful, okay? I love you."
"Love you too." The call ends. I sit there for another minute, smoking my dropped cigarette that's somehow still burning in the puddle.
Andrés. I see his face every night when I close my eyes.
The shock in his expression when he recognized me in that Houston alley.
The moment he understood why I was there. "Helle? Baby, no. I can explain—"
But I didn't want explanations. I wanted him dead. And now my father's paying for what I did.
Inside, Jack's behind the bar, counting liquor bottles for inventory.
He looks up when I approach and takes in whatever my face is showing. "You look like hell, Bailey."
"I need to talk to you."
We go to his office—a small room that's more closet than office, packed with boxes and paperwork and the kind of organized chaos only Jack understands. It smells like cigarettes and old coffee.
"What's going on?"
"Family emergency. My dad." The words stick in my throat. "I need to go home. Maybe a week, maybe more. I don't know."
"Where's home?"
I hesitate telling him the truth. "Florida."
Jack studies me, and I can see him doing the math.
Bailey from Texas, who never talks about family, suddenly has a father in Florida who's having an emergency.
Add in the fact that I always pay cash, never gave him a social security number, and am clearly running from something.
"Are you in trouble?" he asks.
"Not the kind you're thinking."
"What kind then?"
"The family kind. The kind where you fuck up and run away, and then something happens and you have to face it."
He nods slowly. "Take what you need. Job'll be here when you get back."
Relief hits so hard I almost cry. "Thank you."
"But Bailey? Or whatever your real name is—" He reaches into the register, pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. "For the road. Pay me back when you can. Or don't. Consider it hazard pay for putting up with Tom's bullshit flirting."
The kindness cracks something in me.
This stranger—because that's what he is, just someone I work for—showing me more grace than my own father did. "I'll pay you back."
"Sure you will." He grins. "Now get out of here. And hey? Whatever you did or didn't do? Sometimes the only way through is through."
I finish my shift in a daze.
Serve drinks, smile at customers, count tips automatically.
Tom leaves me another ten.
The truckers leave fifteen between them.
By the time I clock out, I've got one-seventy-five for the day.
Add Jack's hundred, that's two-seventy-five.
With my original one-twelve, I've got three-eighty-seven total.
More than enough for gas to Florida.
Maybe even some decent food if I'm careful.
The parking lot is empty except for my bike.
The Kawasaki sits where I left it, matte black and deadly.
My only constant since I left home.
I pack the cash in my boot—safest place, learned that from Dad.
Check my weapons—knife on my thigh, small .380 in my jacket pocket.
The gun I bought after I killed Andrés, because killing once means you might have to kill again.
The ride to my apartment takes fifteen minutes.
I pack in ten.
Clothes shoved into a duffel. Toiletries. The racing leathers I might need.
I destroy everything else.
The photo of Elfe and me at her graduation—torn up, flushed.
The postcard from Mom I kept—burned in the sink.
Anything with my real name on it—gone. Bailey can stay here in Texas. Helle has to go home.
The highway stretches east, and I follow it like a condemned prisoner heading to execution.
Because that's what this is.
Going home means confessing.
Means telling them I killed Andrés.
Means watching their faces when they realize I'm not the victim—I'm the murderer.
Dad is being tortured because of me, and I'm the only one who can save him, by destroying myself.
The note from Los Coyotes sits in my pocket, and I pull it out at a red light.
Tell your sister hello. They know.
They've always known, and now everyone else will too.
Texas disappears in my mirrors, mile by endless mile.
I should feel something—relief, fear, anything.
Instead, I'm just numb.
The same numbness I felt standing over Andrés's body.
The same numbness I've felt for three years, pretending to be someone else.
Maybe numbness is all I have left.
Maybe that's enough to get me home.
Florida is ten hours away.
Ten hours to figure out what I'm going to say.
Ten hours to prepare for the moment my family learns the truth.
Ten hours until everything I've built—this new life, this new name, this temporary safety—crashes down around me.
The Kawasaki eats up asphalt, and I let it.
Let the speed and wind and engine noise drown out the voice in my head that says I'm making a mistake.
That going home won't save anyone.
That some secrets are better left buried.
But Dad's being hurt and it's my fault, so I ride toward the thing I've been running from.
Toward confession. Toward whatever comes after. Even if what comes after is losing everything—again.