78. Mira

78

MIRA

It's only been fifteen minutes since I left Taylor's apartment when my phone rings.

"Hel—"

"You can sleep on my couch as long as you want!" Taylor cuts in. "My problem was mostly with the not-showering. It wasn't you."

I'm still crying—I don't think I've stopped since I walked out of Zane's condo—but I manage a tiny smile. "It was time for me to go. I didn't keep paying for my apartment for nothing. The plan was always to come back to it at some point."

That's not even true. I'm not staying here.

Based on Taylor's long pause, she knows it. Which is why I packed my stuff from her house while she was out. So I wouldn't have to lie to her face.

"You lived here for years before you knew Zane," she says quietly. "You probably won't even run into him again."

"Is your boyfriend planning to cut his best friend out of his life? ‘Cause I think Daniel would object to that."

She sighs. "You don't have to leave, Mira."

Even if Zane didn't have a folder outlining all of my sins—even if my past wasn't nipping at my heels—it would still be time for me to leave. I won't survive it if I run into Zane on a weekend out. Or if he and Daniel are at Taylor's apartment when I get there. Or if he comes into whichever restaurant I end up waitressing with Aiden or, God, a date.

I can't stay in Phoenix. Not anymore.

My throat clogs. I clap my hand over the mouthpiece so Taylor won't hear me clearing it. If she knew how close I am to calling the whole thing off, she'd be banging down my door within the hour to beg me to stay.

"I'm tired," I manage. "Can I call you tomorrow?"

"You can call me anytime, Mimi. I'm always here for you."

I whisper a goodbye before I unlock my rickety front door and collapse in the dusty entryway.

The apartment smells stagnant and mildewy. It's the furthest thing from wintergreen and sun-warmed leather. The furthest thing from home .

I drop my forehead to my knees and cry until my throat aches and my eyes sting.

Then, slowly, I pick myself up and grab the suitcase I keep stashed in the coat closet.

Maybe it's time to go up north. Washington or Oregon. Canada, even. Crossing the border might get complicated with my dodgy fake documents, though. Then again, with the money I made working for Zane, I can afford a winter wardrobe and a new name.

A fresh start.

It might be the only solution. Because Mira McNeil has been compromised. Not just because the paparazzi blasted my name ‘til kingdom come, but also because some part of me is always going to be stuck here. I was able to run from my past because I wanted nothing to do with it. It was easy to run from what scared me.

But how am I supposed to convince myself to run from the only thing I want? These people are the closest thing to a family I've ever had, and Mira will never really be able to leave them behind.

I need a new name, a new phone number, a new backstory.

I can't ever come back to Phoenix.

A sob rattles through my chest, and I drop into the bean bag chair. But the stupid thing splits down the seams. My ass hits the hard vinyl and what little beans are left inside spill across the floor.

I laugh and cry, thinking about what Taylor would say if she could see me now. Probably, I fucking told you so!

If this isn't a sign that I've outgrown this apartment, I don't know what is.

Just as I peel myself off the floor, my phone rings.

I shouldn't answer it. I'm teetering on the edge of my resolve as it is. It wouldn't take more than a tiny nudge from Taylor to keep me here for another week, a month. Maybe a year.

That wouldn't be so bad.

I press my phone to my ear. "Miss me already?"

"For years now," a deep voice rumbles.

I instantly recognize it.

It's the voice that has haunted my nightmares for years. The one echoing down every dark alley and calling from every shadowy corner. I haven't walked out of my front door in years without the ghost of this voice whispering in my ear, slithering down my spine.

The day I stumbled out of my father's house, clutching my bleeding stomach, it was this voice that raged after me. "I'll find you, you little bitch!"

An icy calm steels my spine. "Dante."

"Family means something to you, after all," he sneers. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten about me. As far as I can tell, Mira McNeil doesn't have a brother."

I don't ask how he knows my fake name or how he found me. It doesn't matter.

"It doesn't have to be like this, Dante. We can be better than this. Dad doesn't deserve our lives."

That's what we've given him: our lives. Mine has been spent running. Dante's has been spent chasing after me.

"Dad didn't deserve to have his fucking throat sliced open, either!" he roars.

I stand up slowly, adrenaline jittering through my limbs. I'm shaking as I pace across my bare living room. "Dad did this to us. He hurt me and manipulated you. He turned us on each other—but we can be better than him, Dante. I know we don't know what family looks like, but we can try."

I've seen a glimpse of it these last few weeks— family . I've seen what my father stole from us, but we could scrape it together if Dante would stop trying to kill me long enough to listen.

"He was going to kill me," I breathe. "If I didn't do what I did, Dad would have… I wouldn't have survived it, Dante."

I hear him breathing heavily. "Maybe not. But I know for a fact you won't survive this."

Something smashes against my front door so hard I hear the wood crack.

My heart leaps into my throat, but I try not to react. Maybe he doesn't know I'm here. Maybe if I stay quiet, her will?—

"I know you're in there. I saw you walk inside." Dante plows into my door again and the hinges scream. "There's nowhere to run now, Kitty."

He's really found me.

In an instant, all of my training kicks in.

I chuck my phone on the floor and grab my barely-packed suitcase. The knife block is still on the corner of the countertop closest to the door, so I slide the butcher knife free.

Dante charges into my door again and again, but I try to block it out as I sprint to the bedroom. If I don't block it out, I'll be frozen with fear.

I try to focus on the next step—on what's ahead of me.

Mom's photograph is already in the duffel, along with a few days' changes of clothes and my last check from Zane. There isn't time to grab anything else. As I slide open my bedroom window and step onto the fire escape, I hear the front door explode open.

I take the stairs two at a time. The metal rattles against the side of the building, but I don't slow down. Don't look back.

At the last step, I'm ten feet from the ground, but there isn't time to lower the ladder. I jump.

I hiss as my ankle twists the wrong way. Something in my foot cracks and I fall to my knees.

"Keep going," I pant, pushing myself off the ground and limping as fast as I can down the alley.

Pain rips through my leg with every step, so I mumble the refrain I've been saying for the last six years to drown it out. "Run or he'll catch you. Run or you'll die."