Four Seconds to Lose

my body shedding weight it doesn’t have to spare.

But the dreams . . . they are the worst. All variations of horror leading to the same outcome.

Cain, disgusted with me.

Cain, hurt by me.

Cain insistent on helping me, because of the man he is.

And ending up dead.

No . . . I did the right thing. The same cruel fate that brought us together was bound to rip us apart. It was only a matter of time. I knew it all along and yet I fell hard, all the same.

Berta’s raised voice pulls me from my thoughts. “See, Katie? I told you that you’re better off staying here instead of moving on to a big city.” Berta is convinced that I should settle down in Mobile, Alabama, and work with her until we’re both old and gray. “One of those movie-style drug murders. This time at a fancy hotel in Miami.”

A cold shiver radiates from my chest as my eyes flash to the television, dreading . . . waiting . . . The reporter is going on and on, but the words aren’t truly processing. “Execution-style . . . cartel . . . turf war . . . heroin . . . drug dealer . . .”

A picture flashes onto the screen.

I bite back a gasp. It’s the man who took me to the park on Sundays, who hoisted me onto my horse, who cheered as I stood on the podiums for my medals, who shouted “encore” as I bowed onstage.

Who used me as a pawn.

Who turned me into a criminal.

Who put me in danger.

Who stole my life.

My stepfather—the man who raised me—is dead.

I can hear Berta talking somewhere in the distance, but her voice is blurred. I can feel her arm on my shoulder, half soothing, half trying to break my sudden daze as I stare at the screen, watching his name—“Big” Sam Arnoni—flash across the bottom.

“Katie!”

My eyes finally snap to Berta. She’s staring at me with a wrinkled forehead. Without checking, I know I have the eyes of every single person in the diner on me right now. The feel of them turns my ears hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry!” I finally manage to get out with a weak giggle. “I thought that was my high school English teacher for a second.” I blow out a big gush of air, feigning relief. “That would have been weird.”

Berta starts chuckling. “You scared the bezeejus out of me, girl. Go and get some fresh air. We’ll clean up here.” Glancing down, I see the broken glass and scattered salt all over the floor. The shaker must have slipped from my hand. I open my mouth but she’s already ushering me past the counter toward the back exit, waving away my protests.

Thank God the back of Becker’s is empty. I lean against the deep red brick wall as a shaky exhale leaves my lungs. The fall air, though still warm by Long Island standards, is cooler in the evenings. It doesn’t require a sweater but, all the same, I wrap my arms around my chest.

“Sam is dead.” Those three words sail out of my mouth in a whisper. I let them hang out in the open, deciding exactly how I should feel about the sudden news.

There’s no doubt I’m in shock right now. I mean, in my mind, Sam was indestructible. I, Cain, and everyone else was at risk, but nothing could stop Sam.

Could it be a ruse? Could Sam have staged his own death to lure me back out into the water? No. Sam would never allow his face to appear on the news with a label of “alleged heroin drug dealer.”

Sam is dead.

I suspect that, at some point, maybe in an hour, or tomorrow, or next week, the reality of this will truly hit me, bringing with it genuine relief. Not relief that he is dead. Despite all that Sam had done, despite everything that he was, I must admit to myself that I never really wished him dead. No, it will be relief that I am truly free, that unfortunately his death was the only way that could happen.

Yet an underlying worry is working its way to the surface, bringing waves of nausea with it.

Sam came to Miami.

What if he found Cain? Would he have hurt him, even though I was long gone? Cain’s death wouldn’t make the Mobile, Alabama news. I could be pining over a dead man right now.

Rushing back into the restaurant, I grab my purse. “Can you tell Berta I’ll be about fifteen minutes?” I ask Herald and run out the door before I get his answer.

Now that Sam is dead, I’m obviously not worried about him finding me. But I don’t know how Cain feels about me. I asked Dan not to tell him about my note, but Dan doesn’t owe me anything.

What if Cain hates me?

What if he wants me held accountable for my crime?

All possible, all reasonable.

Doing this is risky. Still, I need to know that he’s alive.

The closest pay phone is four blocks down the street and I run the entire way, cursing myself for not buying a prepaid cell phone. I don’t know how pay-phone tracing works, but I’m hoping it requires more than two seconds of air time.

It takes every last bit of loose change and three attempts, but I finally manage to accurately punch in Cain’s cell number with my shaky hand.

It begins to ring.

I hold my breath.

A second ring.

A third ring.

A sinking feeling dips my stomach, knowing his voice mail will pick up by the fifth.

And then suddenly, “Hello?”

His deep voice steals the air from my lungs.

Cain is safe.

Sam didn’t find him.

I reach for the telephone hook to end the call but my hand freezes. I can’t will myself to pull it. To disconnect Cain from my life.

For just a few seconds, with this weak link, I feel like Cain is still a part of it. I can hear him breathing. I can imagine his phone pressed up against that hint of evening stubble that I’ve felt so many times against my skin.

“Hello?” he asks again, this time a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

My lips part just slightly as if to answer, but I can’t. I can’t even form a single word. And I still can’t breathe. All I can do is listen to him as the tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

Another second passes.

“Charlie, is that you?”

My fist slams down on the hook a second before the ragged sob escapes my lungs.

* * *

“New customer at table fourteen, Honey,” Berta calls out, rubbing my back as she passes.

“Great!” By her grimace, I’ve failed miserably at sounding cheerful. I should just aim for content, even though I’m far from that as well.

There’s a reason people say clean breaks are for the best. I had a clean break. It hurt like hell. And then I had to go and call Cain, to listen to his voice, to hear him acknowledge my existence. It was as if someone took a dull saw and hacked into my clean break to make it jagged and fresh. It’s the kind of pain that makes you pass out.

The kind that feels irreparable.

That was three days ago. Since then, I’ve grabbed my knapsack each morning, taken the city bus down to the Greyhound terminal, and bought a ticket to Miami.

And sat on the bench, watching as the bus pulled away, telling myself that just because Sam is no longer a threat, it doesn’t mean Cain wants anything to do with me anymore. That I should let him be. That I’ve brought