Page 8 of Devil's Tulip

I accept the envelope and count the crisp twenties right there, not caring if it seems rude. Trust is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. Satisfied, I flash her a quick smile and turn to leave.

“See you next week?” Her question stops me on the front steps.

I work here once a week, and this is already my second week. Any longer, and I’d be tempting fate. Still, I hesitate before I say, “I don’t think so. This might be my last time here.”

I need to stick to the rules I set for myself. They’re why I’ve managed to stay off my uncle’s radar—and out of reach of his criminal cronies—for two whole months.

Rule number one: never stay longer than two weeks in one place. Seattle’s time is up.

She narrows her eyes, and I can see the questions on her tongue, but she swallows them. “Goodbye then, Bree. I’ll be sure to let Mrs. Churchill know.” The door shuts with a soft click of finality, and I let out a long sigh.

Goodbye, Seattle; goodbye to the name Bree. Another identity to shed. Because rule two: never reuse names. Each alias is a one-time mask, worn and discarded. This is so if someone manages to connect one false identity, they won’t be able to follow the breadcrumbs to the next. So Bree dies here in Seattle, just like Sarah died in Philadelphia and Maria in Detroit. No connections, no trails.

The only constants in my nomadic life are my go-to jobs: Cleaning, bartending—anything that pays cash and doesn’t need an ID.

I stuff the envelope into my backpack and jog through Madison Park’s picture-perfect streets to the bus stop. The doors start closing as I approach. “Hold the bus!” I yell, breaking into a sprint. Thankfully, the driver shows mercy, reopening the doors just long enough for me to stumble inside with a breathless thanks.

I slump into the nearest empty seat and press my cheek to the cold glass, watching the city go by, tired as hell.

Two stops from my place, I get off the bus and walk the rest of the way on foot, sweat dripping down my back, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Because rule three—though it really should be part of rule two—is to never leave a direct trail from the bus stop or taxi to wherever I live. Can’t be too careful.

The road gets progressively filthier the farther I walk. I have to weave around a minefield of broken bottles and suspicious-looking lumps as the houses start to crowd together, the pristineness fading like a mirage when I reach the other side of Capitol Hill: the poor side.

People loiter on the sidewalk, smoking, their eyes glazed. The tall schizophrenic guy I usually see walking around at this time is out, his curly hair a tangled mess and his soles blackened from walking barefoot. He catches my wince at the state of them and rewards me with some particularly creative curses. Poetry of the streets.

I walk faster, head down, avoiding eye contact as I hurry to my run-down apartment.

Rule number four: no meaningful interactions. The fewer people who remember me, the better. If they don’t know me, they can’t say anything about me.

Finally, I make it into my building and groan when the ‘Out of Order’ sign still mocks me from the elevator—it has worked exactly twice the entirety of my two weeks here, and I’m starting to think those times were hallucinations brought on by wishful thinking.

My legs protest as I drag myself up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, on the verge of collapse by the time I reach the door. The key slides home, and I slip inside the one-room space, immediately locking the door behind me before wedging a chair under the handle—a habit born of necessity and too many close calls.

Now, time to visit my ‘safe’.

See, I learned real quick not to leave money lying around after some junkie broke in and cleaned me out two weeks into being on the run. So I got creative. I peel back the lid on the toilet tank and pull out a Ziplock bag. Then another. And another. Three layers of plastic protect the money I’ve earned over the past two weeks. Today’s one-fifty joins the pile.

Five hundred dollars total.

I sigh as I reseal all the bags and plop my meager life savings back in the tank, replacing the lid. Not nearly enough, never enough, but it’ll have to do.

After a quick shower that barely qualifies as more than a rinse, I collapse on my sorry excuse for a mattress. Just a quick power nap before my shift at the bar tonight. One last shift. Then it’s bon voyage Seattle.

The gnawing hunger wakes me before my alarm can do its job. I blink blearily around my dark room for a moment before I force myself up. My feet hit the cold floor, and I fumble my way to the kitchenette, retrieving the remains from this morning’s breakfast—stale bread and jam, the glamorous food of a woman on the run.

I wolf down my dinner-breakfast hybrid, finishing just as the alarm blares to life. I smack the off button and groggily start getting ready for my last shift at the bar. Once I'm done, I grab my bag from the floor and throw all of my meager belongings into it, except my toilet tank savings—I can get that when I’m back later. I toss the backpack on the bed, then shove the chair away from the door so I can get out.

I lock the door and jog down the stairs, already counting the minutes. Damn, I’m cutting it close.

“You’re late!” Vince yells at me as soon as I walk into the establishment—a medium-sized bar in the middle of downtown Seattle that’s mostly patronized by tourists. I glance at the huge digital clock on the wall. 9:10 PM.

“By ten minutes,” I point out, lifting the divider and slipping behind the bar so I can go to the staff room at the back.

“This is the first time you’re late, so I’ll let it slide. Next time, it’s coming off your check,” he calls after me.

“Lucky for us both, there won’t be a next time…” I murmur under my breath, rolling my eyes as I push inside the female changing room. I change into my uniform—a mini skirt that barely covers my ass and a top with the name of the bar engraved on it that exposes more cleavage than I’m comfortable with. But hey, more skin, more tips, right? Doesn’t make me hate it any less, though.

With a sigh, I toss my old clothes into the locker and slam it shut before heading back out to the main bar. Its modest size means it’s just Vince and me running the show, even during the peak hours. Small space, small crew, big headaches.

---