But first, I look through my bag.
Inside, I open one of the fat envelopes from one of Emil’s associates. I gasp as I count out the twenties and fifties. A thousand dollars fill this one. The Whitman family and associates don’t half-ass anything, and of course, they’d want to further ingratiate themselves with the boss. Going by this one and counting all the envelopes here, I can go and do whatever I want. I could probably pay cash for a house somewhere in Mexico and live an extraordinary life.
Maybe I should. I don’t deserve that, though. Not after what happened to Khaz. My one true friend.
Fuck this money. I should burn it or give it away. Live on the streets for what I did to him. That’s what I deserve.
That idiot.
I take a moment and peel open the envelope that came with the black box with gold ribbon. The thick, black envelope has gold lettering and a seal on it. I open it with trembling hands, and everything I asked for is there. This man has taken care of me and then some. Driver’s license, social security, birth certificate, high school diploma. Even some gift cards for food and my favorite clothing store. I smile because he wants to ensure I don’t blow any money in the wrong place. Hell, he’s even put in a Costco membership. I laugh when I see this, and while I’m shaking from laughing and crying simultaneously, another card drops to the ground at my feet.
Curious, I bend over and pick it up.
It’s a student ID to Pine Mountain University. Some school in North Carolina that I’ve never heard of. I’m not sure I could pick out North Carolina on a map. I’m not proud that I daydreamed through school.
A knot forms in my throat. Khaz talked to me about this. “Go to college,” he’d said. “You’ll be safe. Nice people in North Carolina. You can disappear into the mountains, and no one will find you.”
I had dismissed this idea because I’d barely squeaked by through high school. My teachers only passed me because they knew my “dad” and were terrified. I wasn’t allowed to have friends outside of the “family.” The friends I made in high school, I wouldn’t want to bring them home and let them see my day-to-day life.
The more I stare at this student ID and see my face staring back at me, complete with my new name, the more it feels natural. Something undefinable lodges under my skin.
This is authentic. Not a fake student ID. Khaz wanted this for me, and now I realize how badly he wanted this.
If Khaz went and got himself killed for me, I will do this for him. What are four years of my life? It’s the least I can do.
Seeing my face looking back at me from a student ID—Mila Jamison’s student ID—squeezes my heart. Somebody believed in me. Somebody saw potential in me. Maybe not my adoptive father, and definitely not anyone else in this family full of assholes and criminals. And I wonder if I’m no better than anyone. After all, I did kill someone in cold blood.
The haunting feeling that I’m a murderer doesn’t leave my body until I’m on the bus, heading down the highway for North Carolina.
I’ve never been to the South, let alone a college campus. I hope I don’t stand out too much.