Page 191 of Dirty Damage

The only other time I’ve felt this out of control was on a boat, a long time ago. I’d lost two people I loved dearly that night.

Is this feeling telling me that history is about to repeat itself?

I grit my teeth, eyes narrowing with determination.

Not if I can help it.

56

SUTTON

My passport.

Fifty dollars.

And my phone.

That’s all I have to my name—and if I’m gonna be smart about all this, I need to ditch the phone the first chance I get.

I’ve turned off the tracker and deleted all the other apps. But considering Oleg works in surveillance and has the best and most efficient tools in the literal world at his disposal, I don’t trust that I’ve done enough to cover my trail.

Still, once I ditch this phone, I’m essentially off the grid.

Isolated and alone.

With nothing but fifty dollars to get me… where?

I can get as far as Miami, maybe. So why the hell did I blow thirty bucks on a cab to the airport? It’s not as though I can afford a plane ticket. And using Oleg’s credit cards isn’t an option.

Which is how I find myself sitting on the floor outside a bathroom at Palm Beach International Airport, dialing in my sister’s number.

“Please answer, please answer, please answer, please?—”

Finally, on the third ring, the call picks up. Sydney’s voice comes through but it’s far-off, distant. The connection isn’t clear.

“Syd?”

“—utt—?” I hear her cry. “Is that you? What’s going—? … Are you?—?”

Pressing my free ear down, I try to concentrate on my sister’s voice. “Syd, can you hear me? This is important. I really need to talk to you.”

“… call you back?—”

The line goes dead. I pick myself up off the floor and try to find a quieter corner to hole myself up in.

When Sydney calls back, the line is a whole lot clearer.

“Okay,” she breathes. “I’m in the bathroom. But fair warning, Paul is right outside so I can’t take too long.”

My stomach drops. “Syd, you can’t mention me to him, okay? He can’t know about this call.”

“Somehow, I figured,” she sighs. “What’s going on?”

“Long story short: Oleg and I are over.” God, does that hurt to admit. My throat is burning from the bitterness of those words. “I fucked up and I need help.”

“You need money.”

I wince. “Y-yes… I need money. I’m sorry to ask but?—”

---