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I shoulder my bag, turn off the lights, and shut the door behind me.
Downstairs, my father is standing on the black and white checkered tile in the foyer, blocking my path to the front door. What else could he have to say to me? There’s nothing left. We are unsalvageable. “I did the best I could for you.”
He did his best? That’s laughable. I’d have been better off if he left me on the side of a fucking highway to fend for myself. “Sure.”
“I’ll let you know when you can come home.”
Don’t bother. “Okay.”
He moves in a way that makes me think he’s going to try to hug me. I flinch. That’s something I longed for, for years, a small show of affection. Not anymore. He steps out of the way.
I take the porch stairs two at a time. When I reach the sidewalk, I turn around and stare at the brownstone, standing tall and bright against the dark sky over Commonwealth Avenue. For the briefest of moments, I contemplate burning it to the ground. To hell with Callum Monaghan. I am not going to be his voiceless pawn anymore. I don’t care if I never set foot in this house, on this street, or in this city again. My life will be mine from this night forward. I flip the house—and my father—the bird, then head for my Jeep.
Interstate 95 is dark. I forgot how unlit the freeways are once you hit the North Shore. I swear I haven’t seen a streetlamp since Somerville. My HD headlights do a good job of cutting through the darkness, and my Wrangler is a behemoth that could withstand a direct hit from a Russian rocket, yet for some unnamable reason I’m uneasy. It’s a sensation I’ve had since leaving the Back Bay. Try as I might to rationalize, I’m failing. Something’s off. I’m waging a war with myself to get good with the events of the day. There’s nothing I can do to change the outcome, and maybe that’s it: I feel unsettled because I am unsettled.
I glance at my sideview mirrors, left and right, and then my rearview. It’s late on a weeknight so there’s no traffic, save for a dark-colored Mercedes SL Roadster a few car lengths behind me. There’s something familiar about it, which doesn’t track—it’s a very expensive model you don’t see on the road too often, especially in Massachusetts; rear-wheel drive sucks in the snow.
I pull a quick sweep across four lanes, from the fast lane to the slow lane, then watch my rearview. The Merk doesn’t sweep, but it does slink lanes until it’s behind me again. Unnecessary. I pick up speed, sweep the whole roadway again. It follows.
I’ve been sharing asphalt with this car since Boston. I was aware of it but didn’t think anything of it. Now it’s undeniable: I’m being tailed.
I floor the gas pedal. The HEMI engine roars like a pissed-off lion whose slumber was interrupted; the Wrangler charges forward. Ninety, ninety-five, one hundred miles per hour. This bad bitch is made for off-roading, top speed of 120 mph. I can’t outpace a Roadster built for velocity. I’m boxy, not aerodynamic, which means I can’t outmaneuver it either, and whoever’s driving the Merk is determined to stay on my ass. What’s saving me is the distance between us, which is closing fast.
I read the highway sign.
exit 86, newburyport/route 113, 2 miles
Okay, I know Newburyport. I’ve delivered blow to some stupid rich people there. I decide to use the Mercedes’ speed to my advantage. I slow down to seventy, then stomp on the brake. The Wrangler rattles as it skids to a stop a few hundred yards beyond the exit. The smell of burned rubber assaults my nostrils as the Roadster races past me. I throw the car in reverse, then gun for the exit, over the grassy knoll and curb that separates it from the highway.
Route 113 is even more sparsely lit than 95, another thing that works to my gain. I drive a few miles then turn left down a side street. I park the Jeep, grab my phone from the dash, my duffle from the front seat, and hop out. If I were dumping a car under normal circumstances, I’d take all the paperwork, remove the license plates, and file the VIN, but I don’t have time for that if Mr. Hot Pursuit is trying to find me. I settle for the paperwork alone. The worst thing that’ll happen is it’ll get towed, and I’ll have to retrieve it from impound.
Most of the cars in driveways and lining the street are unsuitable for what I have planned, late models with push-button starters and active alarms—not impossible, just time consuming—but at the far corner I find the one, a nineties Chevy Camaro. Bonus, it’s teal! I peer inside, try the handle. The driver’s side door is unlocked; no surprise in a bougie neighborhood like this. I slide in, pop the steering wheel column cover, locate the central wires, and get to work stripping their plastic coating with my keychain knife. Brown to yellow, battery to lights and radio, twist. The car’s electrical system splutters to life. Add the red and green wires for the ignition and starter, twist. Gas pedal to the metal. Vroom vroom. Fuck yeah!
I handle the clutch, pop the gearshift into first and just like that, we’re off. I’m in fourth gear before I even get back to the interstate. Speeding away in a stolen car has always been exciting. It’ll never not be. That’s how I know there are parts of me that will forever be untamable. Felonious. But street smarts aren’t necessarily a bad thing to possess when you’re in a bind. Thanks for teaching me something useful, however messed up, Dad.
I don’t know who’s driving the Mercedes, but there’s no sign of them as I cross the border into New Hampshire. Twenty miles in, fifty miles in. Nothing. I want to call my dad and ask him about it. He knows, or can find out, everything. That was yesterday’s solution to yesterday’s problems. Today’s problems are mine. Anyway, it makes no difference who or why. As long as I can outrun them, I’ll be golden.
It’s close to midnight when I arrive in Phippsburg. There are things I want to get done before Jules arrives tomorrow. If there’s anyone who deserves a vacation, it’s her. I might have ruined it, but there might be something I can do to save some enjoyment for her, and that means I need to get an early start. I find the closest hotel—a shitty Econostay—park the Camaro, laugh at how it fits right in with the rest of the beaters in the guest parking lot, and get a room for the night.
The mattress is hard as a slab of concrete, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m so exhausted—mentally, emotionally, and physically—that I could sleep on a bed of hot coals. Tomorrow is going to be better than today.
ELEVEN
JULES
I come down for breakfast with a packed suitcase to find my parents at the kitchen table. My mother cooked a big spread, as usual, but neither of them seem interested in the food. They’re silent as cadavers and just as stiff. Dad’s staring at the refrigerator. Mom has her head in her hands. They’ve heard the news. I’m a magnificent liar but a terrible actor. I don’t know how to pretend to be surprised that Gino’s dead, or that I didn’t cry myself to sleep last night after Rowan told me.
The most depressing thought comes to me: Maybe Gino is the lucky one. He’s free now. Nobody can give him orders that put him in danger. Nobody can threaten him or hurt him anymore, and he can’t threaten or hurt anyone else. Maybe that’s what death is—freedom. From expectations and obligations and burdens and pain. But he’ll never do or say or feel anything worthwhile again, either. He’ll never laugh at another of my terrible puns or hug his mother or close his eyes at a gory scene in Scream 15 or whatever-number sequel. He’ll never have a family of his own. He’ll never experience love, or joy, or possibility again. Soon, all he’ll be is a pile of bones.
Fresh tears well up before I’ve been given my cue, so I improvise. Not such a bad actor. I swallow the sob that’s itching to be released from my throat. “Gino’s dead, isn’t he?” I ask my father.
His attention flutters from the distant nothing onto me. His eyes are bloodshot, as if he hasn’t slept in a week. He hasn’t lost an employee in a long time. No one’s been foolish enough to take out a Calloway man in years. Well, the joke’s on him. He’s the fool.
“Yes, he is. He died last night. His mother called this morning.”
I let the tears flow unrestrained. I’m sad, but also angry. He should still be here. It wasn’t an unlucky accident that took him away. “He was twenty-six years old. How many more of your lackeys won’t make it to thirty, do you think? And who will you lose next? Teague? Maybe it’ll be me, targeted or caught in the crossfire, who knows.”
“I will always keep you safe.”
