Page 114 of Sinful
I start packing methodically.
Clothes go into a duffel bag—mostly jeans and tank tops.
Books go into a box—nothing sentimental, just cheap paperbacks from used bookstores to fill the silence.
A few photos—me and Elfe as kids, my parents on their wedding day, one of me winning a race where you can see the joy on my face.
Most of the furniture can stay.
The lumpy mattress, the card table I used as a desk, the folding chair that wobbles.
None of it's worth keeping. None of it means anything.
In the back of the closet, I find my racing leathers.
The ones I wore as "Hell" for three years.
Black leather worn soft from use, scratched from crashes I barely survived, the smell of gasoline and victory and fear embedded in the fabric.
I hold them for a long moment, remembering.
The rush of winning. The terror of almost dying.
The way it felt to be someone else, someone fearless, someone who couldn't be hurt because she'd already lost everything that mattered.
I pack them carefully.
Not because I'm done racing—I'll never be done racing, because I'm going to do it right this time.
Legal tracks. Real competitions. My real name.
Helle. Not Hell. Not Bailey. Just me.
At the bottom of my underwear drawer, hidden beneath bras and socks, I find something I forgot I kept.
A photo. Me and Andrés.
We're at a beach somewhere, both smiling, his arm around my shoulders, my head tilted toward him like he's the center of my universe.
We look young. Happy. Stupid.
I stare at it for a long time.
This is the boy who used me.
Who pretended to love me while gathering intelligence for Los Coyotes.
Who nearly destroyed my family.
Who I killed in a Houston alley two years ago without an ounce of regret.
I should have thrown this away years ago.
I tear it in half. Then quarters.
Then smaller and smaller pieces until it's confetti in my hands, his face unrecognizable, our fake happiness shredded beyond repair.
I throw it in the trash without looking back.
