There’s a shaky breath on the other end, then a voice I haven’t heard in weeks. “Carrie? It’s me. Marcy.”
I sit up straight, heart racing. “Marcy—where the hell are you? Are you okay?”
She gives a short, bitter laugh. “I heard you’ve been asking about me. Didn’t think you’d want to talk to me after everything.”
Tears prick my eyes, the ache of betrayal and loss boiling over.
“Do you not hate me for what I’ve done?”
My voice wobbles, breaking apart. “I’m not sure I even know how to forgive you, Marce. But I miss you. I just wanted to know you were alive.”
There’s silence, the sound of a sniffle, then Marcy says, softer, “I’m so sorry, Carrie. For everything. I messed up. I wish I could take it back.”
I wipe my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. “You can’t. Neither can I. But I just…I needed to hear your voice. I needed to know you’re alive.” I want to tell her about the deal I made with ATF, and Rodriguez, but something holds me back.
The line is quiet except for Marcy’s shaky breathing. Finally, she speaks, her voice small and raw. “I need your help, Carrie. I don’t have anyone else. Jinn…he’s gone. He got nasty—more than usual. Last night he threw me out. I’m on the street. I just—I need enough for a bus ticket home. Please.”
I press a hand over my eyes, trying to process it all. The last time I saw Marcy, she’d stolen everything from me—Jinn, my trust, my future. Now she sounds like a scared kid, nothing like the sister I remember or the woman who betrayed me.
“This is the first time I’ve heard from you since that night,” I whisper. “Why should I believe you now, Marcy?”
She chokes back a sob. “You don’t have to. I know I fucked up. But I swear, Carrie, I just want to get out of here. I just want to come home. I don’t know where else to turn.”
All my anger and grief war with the old instinct to protect her. I don’t trust her—but I hear the truth in her fear. She really is alone, and now she needs me.
“Where are you right now?” I ask, wiping at my eyes, trying to keep my voice steady.
Marcy sniffs, her voice crackling over the line. “I’m in Youngstown. Just over the border—Ohio. It’s only a couple hours from you, I think. Been sleeping at the bus station andcrashing with some girls I met here. I just…I just want to come home.”
The name hits me hard. Youngstown. That’s not even far. And it’s not another country.
Rodriguez told me Jinn had already left the country, but if Marcy’s in Youngstown, Jinn might be near.
It doesn’t add up. Was Rodriguez lying to me—or is someone else playing games?
I grip the phone tighter. “Was Jinn with you? In Youngstown?”
She hesitates, then sighs, her voice brittle. “Yeah. Until two days ago. He took off. Didn’t say where. Just left me here with nothing. But I heard from someone that he’s shacking up with someone new.”
I feel bad for my sister. Sure, she fucked me over, but now she’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, desperate for help. My mind spins, questions multiplying, old anger and new fear tangling together. But all Marcy wants is to come home.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, voice flat but certain. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll call you back soon.”
She breathes out, relieved. “Thank you, Carrie. You don’t know how much this means.”
I end the call with Marcy and stare at the screen, my mind buzzing. I open my banking app, hoping for a miracle. My first paycheck from the prison cleared a few days ago—my hands shake as I check the balance. The number isn’t comforting. Most of it disappeared the same day I got it, thanks to the doctor’s appointment, tests, and meds. No insurance means everything is out of pocket.
What’s left isn’t much. Barely enough for groceries, let alone a bus ticket across state lines. I rub at my tired eyes, frustration and guilt swelling inside me. Marcy’s out there, desperate and alone, and I’m supposed to be her safety net. But I can’t saveher and save myself—not with everything closing in, not with the baby, the guys, Rodriguez, all of it.
I drop the phone in my lap, staring out the dark motel window, wondering how I’m going to fix any of this.
The bus dropsme in front of a plain brick federal building just outside Cleveland—a squat, gray thing with mirrored windows and a faded seal by the door. I’m sweating by the time I make it through the metal detector and up to the reception desk.
The woman at the counter is polite but suspicious, her eyes flicking over my wrinkled shirt and the faded prison ID on my lanyard. “Can I help you?”
I square my shoulders, doing my best to sound official. “I’m here about the Reaper MC weapons bust. I need to speak to someone from the task force. It’s important.”
She eyes me for a second longer, then picks up the phone, speaking in low tones. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
