Me: It’s done.
I attach the picture. The one of Matteo on the rug, limp and perfect in the way that really sells a lie. Grief, thick and heavy sits in my chest. Not at the failed job but at the idea of those bright, mischievous eyes actually going dark forever. I did theright thing. I made the right choice. Then I hit send before I can taste the guilt. It lands with the little whoosh of a mistake you can never come back from.
Three dots. They dance across the screen for an endless moment.
Donal: Where? I’ll come to you.
Me: No. I need space. I’ll handle the clean-up. Then I’m going to take a break and see the sights while I’m in NYC.
A beat. I can practically feel his jaw clench through the screen.
Donal: This isn’t a holiday, Cáit. Where. Are. You?
Me: I’m in Midtown. It’s crowded and there are cameras everywhere. Relax.
I am not in Midtown. I’m somewhere between Kearny and a transfer point along the highway.
Donal: Tiernan wants eyes on you. He wants proof. You do not get to disappear on me.
Me: I sent the proof. Now dammit, Donal, let me breathe.
Donal: You can’t escape this, Cáit. Meet me at 34th in an hour.
Me: No.
Donal: Cáit…
Me: I’ll call when I’m ready. Keep Tiernan off my back.
Typing. Not typing. I watch the bubbles flicker across the screen.
Donal: I’ll give you the day. Then I come looking for you.
I flip the phone face down and watch my reflection warp on the dark screen like a warning. If I go to 34thStreet, I’ll belong to Tiernan again. If I go anywhere obvious, the Geminis will find me.
I need a place that doesn’t belong to anyone.
I can’t go to the usual safehouses, those are Donal’s as much as mine. And if I go to one of our American contacts, I risk running into Tiernan. He has the same list we do. And definitely not Sean, he’d sell me out for a compliment and a pint.
My mind spins and suddenly, Sicily gives me the answer like she always does: hot air, briny salt and a girl with chipped nail polish sliding a beer across a warped bar.
Noel.
I can still hear her laugh. It was wide and reckless, a sound like no other. I’d come to visit her stateside two years ago, spent a month on the Jersey shore at her mam’s place. She took me for greasy pizza on a boardwalk that smelled like sugar and the sea. We watched teenagers scream on a Ferris wheel and made fun of boys with too much hair gel. Noel knew how to keep secrets. More importantly, almost no one knew we were close.
It's risky, involving outsiders. And I hate to expose her to this life, but men like Tiernan don’t look for you in kitchens on the Jersey Shore.
I dig the number out of my head. It’s not saved on any device that could be traced, just muscle memory and a prayer. I type it by feel.
Me: Ciao, Noel. Salt and oranges.
It’s what she said the first night we bartended together, when we matched bracelets and tips and decided we’d make the most of that summer.
Three long dots. My knee bounces.
Noel: Holy hell. Who is this? If this is Matteo playing a joke, I swear
I stare at her words for a long moment. Matteo? She stayed in touch with him all this time? Shaking my head, I banish the pointless thoughts. So what if he had? It doesn’t matter.
