“Hey, it’s okay.” He raises his hands, palms out. “Just thought I might be able to help. I overheard a bit of your conversation. You’ve got something valuable you’re trying to sell?”
Suspicion wars with desperation inside me. “Why do you care?”
“I buy things sometimes. You might say I’m a collector.” His smile is easy, relaxed. “What are you trying to sell?”
Against my better judgment, I slip my hand into my pocket, withdrawing the diamond choker. The afternoon sun catches the stones, sending prisms of light dancing across Ray’s interested face.
He whistles, much like the pawnbroker did. “That’s some serious hardware. May I?” He extends his hand, but doesn’t move closer.
I hesitate, then step forward, placing the choker in his palm.
“Beautiful craftsmanship.” He examines it carefully, running his thumb over the stones. “Where are you headed that’s so important?”
“The airport,” I admit, then immediately regret giving away even that small detail.
“I could give you three thousand for this,” he says, looking up to gauge my reaction. “And a ride to the airport, if that’s where you’re going.”
My instincts scream danger, but what choice do I have? Three thousand would be enough for a ticket—even without ID, I might be able to bribe my way onto a flight. And every minute I spend here is another minute Raffaele gets closer.
“How do I know I can trust you?” The question sounds naïve even to my own ears.
Ray laughs softly. “You don’t. But seems to me you don’t have a lot of options right now.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet and showing me the wad of hundred-dollar bills. “Three thousand, cash. And a ride. Take it or leave it.”
I stare at him, searching for signs of deception, of threat. But all I see is a businessman making a deal he knows favors him. “Okay,” I whisper. “Deal.”
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting rigidly in the back seat of his weathered sedan, one hand constantly on the door handle. The cracked leather seat sticks to my bare thighs as Ray drivesthrough unfamiliar streets, making casual conversation I barely hear over the pounding of my heart.
“So, where are you flying to?” he asks, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
“Canada,” I lie. I haven’t decided where I’m going yet, only that it needs to be far from here. Far from the Caribbean. Far from Raffaele.
“Long flight,” Ray comments. “Visiting family?”
“Something like that.” I stare out the window, watching paradise blur past; palm trees, turquoise glimpses of ocean, tourists oblivious to the nightmare unfolding in their midst.
I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from saying anything when I notice him texting while driving. At least he still pays attention to the road.
True to his word, Ray drives directly to the airport departure terminal. He pulls to the curb, shifts into park, and turns to hand me a stack of cash. “Three thousand, as promised.”
I take it with trembling fingers, half-expecting some kind of trap. But he simply smiles while I count it, making sure it’s all there.
“Thank you,” I murmur once I’m done.
“Don’t mention it.” He hands me an envelope that I eagerly shove the money into. Then he gestures toward the sliding doors of the terminal. “Good luck, wherever you’re going,” he says as I climb out of the car.
I stand on the curb, watching as he pulls away into traffic. This small kindness—from a stranger who probably ripped me off—nearly breaks me. It’s the first moment since I plunged that knife into Andrea that someone has treated me like a human being, not a target.
But I can’t linger on that thought. Can’t afford the luxury of gratitude or relief. Not when every second counts.
Taking a deep breath, I turn toward the airport entrance, toward whatever slim chance of escape awaits me inside.
The airport swallows me whole—a gaping maw of noise and bodies and announcements I can’t understand.
I clutch Ray’s envelope against my chest like a shield, the edges of the bills inside digging into my palm through the paper. Three thousand dollars. My ticket away from here. Away from what I’ve done. Away from Raffaele.
My eyes dart from face to face, searching for him in every tall, dark-haired man that passes. He has to be looking for me by now. Has to know what I’ve done to his dad.
The departure terminal pulsates with life. I watch families hugging goodbye, businesspeople striding purposefully with rolling suitcases, and airport staff in crisp uniforms directing the flow of humanity.
