No one knows where I am.
But there’s one person I can contact. I need to speak to someone from my life in Seattle.
I purchase the burner phone, and when I’m safely in my car again, I turn it on and punch in the number I memorized years ago.
I always send Anastasia the same text. Always. But not this time. Because I’m not just checking in to see how Archer’s doing.
Me: Have you seen the news?
I sit and breathe, close my eyes, and do my best not to dissolve into hysterics. It won’t do me any good to sob uncontrollably in the parking lot of a Walmart.
Get it together, Elena.
Less than a minute later, I get a reply.
Unknown: I did. I’m so sorry, E. How can I help?
The tears come anyway.
There’s nothing Anastasia can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. I’m on my own. I’ve been on my own for almost a decade, but I always knew that if push came to shove, I could contact my grandmother, and she’d help me.
But now, she’s gone.
I haven’t seen or spoken to her in eight years. She warned me then, sternly, that I had to stay hidden, couldn’t blow my cover. She said when the time was right, she’d bring me home.
Even when everything went to shit six years ago at the vineyard, she never contacted me directly. My situation was handled quickly and quietly without a word from her.
Because one doesn’t simply leave the mob. Especially the daughter of the boss. There’s no way out. But I’ve had a reprieve. And I pray that I can stay hidden, that she took our secret with her to the grave. I hope that I’m as safe here in my little haven as I was the day I arrived.
I wipe the tears away and reply to Anastasia.
Me: Nothing to do. I just needed something from home. Been to any new restaurants lately?
That last line is my usual one, the one that secretly asks if Archer’s okay. The man never stops eating. The response is always the same unless something is wrong.
So far, nothing’s ever been wrong.
I need to check on him. To make sure he’s safe and that my family hasn’t done anything to him, especially after the way my father threatened to kill him.
Unknown: Nothing new lately!
That’s the right answer.
I wipe the history on the phone, then place it under the tire of my car and drive over it, making sure it’s good and smashed before I drive back to Bandon.
I don’t even own a cell phone as Ally. I have a house phone at my cottage with old-fashioned voicemail where the few people who call me can reach me.
That’s usually just my work and Lindsey. I stick to myself. I don’t trust anyone, and truth be told, I’m not good with people. Because letting people get too close means establishing a relationship, and relationships only lead to heartache.
Been there, done that, have the scars to show for it.
I wipe my cheeks all the way home, letting myself cry and feel the absolutely stabbing pain the loss of my grandmother has brought.
I park in front of the cottage, hurry inside, and lock the door behind me. I run up to my bedroom and open the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Under my socks and underwear is a framed photo. The only one I allowed myself to bring with me when I fled Seattle all those years ago.
In it, I’m about ten, dressed in a white dress. It was my first communion. The mafia may be full of murdering philanderers, but they’re staunchly Catholic.
Sitting next to me, smiling down at me, is my grandmother.
I hug the photo to my chest and give in to not only the tears from earlier, but also the sobs that have wanted to come since I saw the news report in the diner.
I wish, with all my heart, that I could go to the funeral. To be there to say goodbye to the best person I’ve ever known. I owe her that, especially after everything she did for me. But how? I can’t be seen. It would blow my cover, and the last thing I need is for the family to find me.
All I know is, as I sit here sobbing, I need to go to Seattle. I quickly search my grandmother’s name on my iPad and see that her funeral is in two days. I have two days to figure this out.
And that just makes me cry harder.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, rocking back and forth, hugging the image of us together, but finally the tears ebb, and I reach for a tissue to blow my nose and wipe the mess from my cheeks.
I carry the photo downstairs with me and pour myself a glass of wine, then curl up on the couch. I didn’t take that walk on the beach. I could still go. There are at least two more hours of sunlight left. The beach helps to ground me, clears my head. And God knows I could use a clear head to figure this out. To remind myself that Grandma would not want me to go to Seattle for her funeral. Yes, a walk on the beach is exactly what I need.