Does he really expect us to listen?
Tink gives me a final shove and I fall through the gap, flailing as I go. Thankfully, my face breaks my fall. (Because it wasn’t already bruised enough.) I moan as my head smashes against the storm steps but before I can gain my feet, the weight of a small body lands on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs and flattening me back against the concrete.
“Ugh,” I grunt as Tink scrambles off me, grabbing my hand and dragging me up. Mere inches away, the man is struggling with the door, trying to squeeze through the sliver of space. His arm snatches at the air above our heads.
“Let’s move!” Tink tugs at my hand. “He can’t fit through there, but he’ll be out the front in less than a minute and you can bet your ass he won’t be alone.”
Ignoring the pain in my shredded palms, scraped knees, and battered head, I drag myself into a semi-vertical position and make my way up the stairs after her. Our fingers stay twined tight until we hit the asphalt of an abandoned parking lot, its every streetlamp shattered and dark. I barely have time to look around, because we’re running. A dead sprint, faster than I’ve ever run in my life and still somehow not fast enough. My arches ache as my stilettos crash against the pavement without mercy.
Maybe Nate was right about my impractical shoes, after all…
We cut past dumpsters, through ditches, across lawns — never slowing, barely breathing, not once looking back to see if we’re being chased. Buildings pass in a blur — dilapidated row houses with lights long dimmed for the night, run-down businesses with metal grates dropped fast over their glass windows. I can see the Tobin Bridge, glowing dim over the water in the distance. Its presence grounds me, and I suddenly know exactly where I am.
Charlestown.
I’m in Charlestown. Less than a mile away from the zoning site for my father’s new development.
I don’t have time to think about that — there’s no room for it in my head, what with all the terror and adrenaline monopolizing the space.
We run.
Arms pumping, feet lifting, one step after another until I think I’m going to die right there on a cracked sidewalk in one of Boston’s most notorious crime neighborhoods.
“How do you…run in…those damn…shoes,” Tink wheezes, rounding a corner at breakneck pace, her black Toms never losing stride. “Take…them…off.”
“These…are…my…best…Manolos,” I gasp, outraged and breathless. “No…freaking…way.”
“Idiot,” she pants.
“Bitch,” I croak.
After a few blocks, the rough edges of the neighborhood give way to something a bit softer, more gentrified. We pass houses with small, well-manicured lawns, businesses with flower boxes lining their windows. In the space of a few streets, we’ve entered civilization again.
“Think we… lost them…” Tink’s voice is choppy. “Fucking… finally.”
She finally slows to a walk by a covered bus stop on a narrow side street, pacing in tight circles so her limbs don’t cramp up. I have no such patience or perseverance — limbs be damned, I collapse onto the stained wooden bench, uncaring whether there’s lactic acid building up in my joints or gum clumping in my hair or a gazillion germs crawling onto my body. One more second on my feet and my heart is going to give out.
If Cormack catches us right now, so be it. I couldn’t find the energy to move if Tom Brady himself pulled up to the curb and offered me a ride in his Escalade.
My eyes slip closed and I try to regulate my breathing. I’m panting like a sex-line operator. My lungs ache with each inhale and every muscle in my legs burns like my veins are on fire. I can’t tell whether the buzzing in my ears is from lack of oxygen, permanent brain damage, or the flickering street lamp down the block.