Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I told him to stay in the car and keep the doors locked, but I’m still relieved to see our vehicle where I left it, Eli intact, bobbing his head to the radio.
As soon as I open the door though and pass him the bag of food, I’m hit by the joyful Christmas tunes, because of course that’s what he’s listening to, and my stomach shrinks. I’m instantly reminded of what I shouldn’t be thinking of and it’s like a frustrating loop in my head.
I never finished my last job. I never got my last tattoo, the proof that I am free to walk away. But Sullivan’s dead, so it shouldn’t matter.
“Are you okay?” Eli cocks his head at me, pulling me out of the stupor.
Fuck. The last thing I need him worrying about is my fucked-up head.
“Yes, just a bit tired,” I say, sliding into my seat and locking the doors. “Got you one of those bubble teas too. Hope you will enjoy my Christmas tradition.”
“Chinese food? Sounds great. I’m just happy to be here with you.” Eli’s smile is so joyful when he looks my way. “I told you I could do some of the driving. We’re in this together.”
“I’d rather you can duck and hide at any moment. We’re still not out of the woods,” I tell him, stalling when my brain reminds me that without Sullivan’s final gesture I might never feel truly out.
I know those are not logical thoughts, that a dead man can’t have any power over me anymore. Nothing is stopping me from dropping everything and living however the hell I want, but I can’t help feeling that the anchor that bastard had in me is still there, rusting inside my body, and poisoning every thought.
Even thinking about stepping on that ship makes me recoil. As if it’s illegal. Not allowed. As though my brain refuses to accept that I can in fact go. The invisible cattle prod is there to shock me, and I’m losing appetite by the second.
“I don’t know. I have a good feeling about it.” Eli shrugs and starts shoveling food into his mouth, oblivious to my torment. I want it to stay that way. He has enough to deal with.
“A good feeling about—” I let it hang in the air, wondering if I’ve turned to my thoughts for long enough to miss a chunk of our conversation.
Again, I slide my hand under my top and scratch the itchy emptiness in the middle of my torso.
It’s fine.
Sullivan is gone.
I don’t need his permission to retire.
And yet, being this close to the port and planning an escape is making my skull feel too tight, and my chest—constrained.
Eli grins wider when he opens another paper bag. “Oooh! Fried wontons. Have I mentioned I love you?” He winks at me, but I don’t have time to answer. “Look, they’re preparing for a parade in the park. Any one of those Santas could be the Festive Fugitive.” Eli wiggles his eyebrows and points farther in front of us, where a platform decorated to resemble a snow-covered mountaintop is surrounded by people in costumes.
I grab onto the empty skin under my clothes and twist the flesh, trying to distract myself with the discomfort of it. Sullivan no longer matters. Eli eliminated him from the game, and if I’m to be loyal to anyone, it’s he who deserves it. How else am I supposed to ensure his safety than to escort him someplace where he’s less likely to be found?
“They’re not the real thing.”
Eli smirks. “What if I’m the imposter and the real Festive Fugitive is now far away?”
It’s becoming hard for me to focus even on Eli’s jokes, which I love so much. The reality of leaving for Alaska in under twenty-four hours is hitting me in ways I never anticipated. Maybe it is weird that I’m not eating, nor responding to him like I normally would, but I’m in dire need of grounding myself, so I press my back to the seat and stare past the windshield, at the crowd preparing to set off with the parade. A pair of arms rises above all the moving heads, holding up a toddler, and all my muscles go rigid, as if the car accelerated to the speed of sound, forcing me to resist the unexpected pressure. A man in a Santa costume takes the child, and suddenly all I can think of is my fucking origin story.
Given away to Sullivan, I was a commodity gathering images in ink as if my own skin were a loyalty card, and the goal of filling it up—the freedom Sullivan tried to deny me. And now that card has expired before I could ever collect my prize.
I’m left denying myself the freedom in Sullivan’s stead, as if that mechanism really is inside my heart and might explode the moment I set off for my journey north.