Fifteen months later
The tweezers clatter onto the table from the sudden piercing pain from my elbow down.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
I stretch my fingers and wiggle them to ease the tension. It does jack shit. Over a year later, and I’m still paying for the crap Tommy put me through. Huffing, I snatch my wrist brace off the nearby shelf and strap it on before pushing away from the workbench.
Whatever. I’ll fix the speakers later. It’s not important. I need to get ready for my meeting.
Distracting myself does very little to stop my fingers from tingling. I need medical attention—surgery, injection, physio—but it’s not an option. What would be the point? There's only so much someone can endure when their ex breaks the same hand three times and forces them to work through the agony. Plus, that means letting someone touch me, and… No, not an option.
A wave of vertigo hits me when I stand, hands flying onto the bench to stabilize myself. My eyes screw shut, and I breathe against the sudden blow of exhaustion. It slowly ebbs away as the seconds pass, until I can walk. It’s been getting worse over the past six months. My own body is giving out on me.
Grumbling under my breath, I step out of my air-conditioned workroom into the living area, suppressing a grimace at the dip in temperature. The faintest scent of the sea breeze permeates the humid air over notes of Dad’s favoritepad kra pao moorecipe I had for lunch—not as good as how my grandma made it, but it’ll do.
I eyeball the many in-process repairs lying around the room and amble over to the clean laundry pile on the couch, where my keys stick out from between the cracks in the cushions—proof I haven’t left the house in, what? A week?
My little two-bedroom cabin is nothing fancy. There’s an old water stain on the ceiling in the bathroom. The water pressure can be more accurately described as a trickle. A couple of the living room tiles have hairline cracks in them—one of them is actually starting to chip. Half the wallpaper in my bedroom is peeling, and one of the wooden boards on the stairs leading to the front door is rotten.
The place is free from blood money, devoid of walls I’ve been thrown against, corners I’ve huddled in. This little shack by the ocean ismine, a slice of Earth untouched by the Gallaghers.
The two girls who got me fake passports changed my name to Cindi—it’s close enough to Kristy that I’d remember—and brought me into their fold, Deedee and Nat, helped me put a fresh coat of paint on the rest of the house, organized for an AC unit to be installed in my bedroom, and got the bathroom redone so I wasn’t stuck with a squatting toilet.
The cabin is close enough to Kuta and Ubud in Bali that I can make drops and pick up supplies for the microchip labwithout having to drive for hours. Plus, there are a bunch of trees between me and my neighbors and next to no foot traffic to make it easier to survey my area.
Being close to the beach and the cheaper rent are bonuses.
I grab the gun hidden beneath the coffee table and stuff it in my backpack, mentally tallying the supplies I’ll need to order for next month’s shipment so we can meet rising demand for our fake passports. Maybe I can convince Deedee to overstock so we don’t have to stress about that every month.
She’ll probably fight me on it, but it’s not my business, so I can’t fully complain.
The Velcro of my brace catches on the shoulder straps of my backpack when I tug it on, and pain darts up my arm. It’s just one thing after another.
Get over it, I chastise myself.
My good hand hovers over the door handle. Paranoia and fear skitter down my spine at the thought of leaving the safety of my house. What if a pirate is tracking me to find our lab? What if I run into a Gallagher? What if Tommy’s family catches me and?—
The muscle in my jaw pulses. Tommy doesnotcontrol me anymore. I refuse to be stuck behind bars of my own making.
The moment I step outside, damp air slaps me in the face, and I almost turn right back around. I want to be either in the water or lying beneath the AC, not spending the next hour or so on the road to meet with a man-child.
The door automatically locks behind me, the alarm system engaged with a couple of taps on my phone, beginning a countdown on my laptop to self-destruct if someone tries to break in.
If someone told me I’d be using my engineering degree for home security, I would’ve laughed. Yet, here we are.
Blowing out a breath, I squint against the sun as I round the house to the garage. Unlocking and rolling up the door, I falter at the engine conveniently sittingoutsidethe car—Dad would’ve had my car up and running in a matter of days. He would’ve made it an all-hands-on-deck situation at the shop. But all this shit is my problem now, and my problem alone.
I hang my head back and suppress a groan. A spike of pain tears through my arm, and I glare at the stupid brace, then at the even stupider Honda Civic with the shitty transmission. If my car is out of commission, I’m bearing the full wrath of Satan on a bike.
Pulling the roller door shut, I curse Tommy under my breath for the millionth time as I head for the motorbike, fishing out a pair of sunglasses from my backpack. I clip on a helmet before settling on the seat. The engine rumbles alive beneath me, soothing my soul—but it’s not nearly enough to calm the paranoia rearing its ugly head.
Clenching my eyes shut, I count to three.
Tommy’s family doesn’t know I’m here.
I stretch my fingers out one last time before gripping the throttle. The wheels skid across the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt that follows my wake, and I’m off, tearing down the long driveway before making it onto a gravel road. I switch between main streets and side ones, one eye always out for any vehicles that might be tailing me.
Sweat drips down my forehead and spine, and the harsh fabric of my shorts chafes painfully against my skin.
