Page 188 of Mile High Ruin

Daniel nods. “We need to cross before people start looking too closely.”

I stare at them. “And me?”

Mila’s expression changes again. That guilty look returns. “We have to separate after this.”

I expected it.

That doesn’t make it pleasant.

“You’re leaving me here.”

“There’s a town not far away with a bus station. Daniel has cash for you, and you have your passport. You can get somewhere safe.”

“Somewhere safe.”

She winces. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But I know my brother will be looking for you. I don’t understand the depth of his feelings for you, maybe he doesn’t either, and that’s what makes it even more dangerous.”

I think about what she says. There’s no way Vadim feels so deeply for me, except maybe hate itself. But I don’t tell her.

Daniel takes an envelope from inside his jacket and places it on the table. “There’s enough there for transportation, a hotel, whatever you need for a few days.”

I don’t touch it yet.

Mila reaches across the table. “I wish I could help more.”

I look at her hand, then at her face. “You’ve done enough.”

The words come out colder than I intend.

She withdraws her hand.

For a moment, guilt tries to rise. Then I think about the birthday decorations, the gunfire, Camille bleeding into my dress, and I let the guilt go.

Daniel pays for the food while Mila gathers their things.

Outside, the morning has turned pale and miserable, the kind of gray that makes it impossible to tell whether the sun has actually risen or simply given up behind the clouds.

Mila hugs me before she gets into the car. I stand stiffly for a second, then return it because despite everything, I can’t make myself hate her.

“I really am sorry,” she whispers.

I don’t ask what she means. There are too many possibilities.

Daniel gives me the name of the nearby town again and tells me which direction to walk if I can’t find a taxi. Then they get into the car.

I stand beside the road and watch them drive away. Mila looks back once through the rear window, and then the car turns and disappears.

The second they’re gone, my stomach twists so violently that I barely make it around the side of the café before I bend over and throw up.

At first I blame the coffee, the lack of sleep, the blood, the gunfire, the fact that I’ve spent the last several hours running on fear and adrenaline, but even after there’s almost nothing left in my stomach, the nausea keeps rolling through me in slow, miserable waves.

I brace one hand against the wall and wait for it to pass.

It doesn’t, not completely.

When I finally straighten, my throat burns and my eyes are watering.

“Perfect,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Exactly what I needed.”