"Not the kind you're thinking."
"What kind then?"
"The family kind. The kind where you fuck up and run away, and then something happens and you have to face it."
He nods slowly. "Take what you need. Job'll be here when you get back."
Relief hits so hard I almost cry. "Thank you."
"But Bailey? Or whatever your real name is—" He reaches into the register, pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. "For the road. Pay me back when you can. Or don't. Consider it hazard pay for putting up with Tom's bullshit flirting."
The kindness cracks something in me.
This stranger—because that's what he is, just someone I work for—showing me more grace than my own father did. "I'll pay you back."
"Sure you will." He grins. "Now get out of here. And hey? Whatever you did or didn't do? Sometimes the only way through is through."
I finish my shift in a daze.
Serve drinks, smile at customers, count tips automatically.
Tom leaves me another ten.
The truckers leave fifteen between them.
By the time I clock out, I've got one-seventy-five for the day.
Add Jack's hundred, that's two-seventy-five.
With my original one-twelve, I've got three-eighty-seven total.
More than enough for gas to Florida.
Maybe even some decent food if I'm careful.
The parking lot is empty except for my bike.
The Kawasaki sits where I left it, matte black and deadly.
My only constant since I left home.
I pack the cash in my boot—safest place, learned that from Dad.
Check my weapons—knife on my thigh, small .380 in my jacket pocket.
The gun I bought after I killed Andrés, because killing once means you might have to kill again.
The ride to my apartment takes fifteen minutes.
I pack in ten.
Clothes shoved into a duffel. Toiletries. The racing leathers I might need.
I destroy everything else.
The photo of Elfe and me at her graduation—torn up, flushed.
The postcard from Mom I kept—burned in the sink.
