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Despite all that, I still have the same conclusion. Death—cancer—it all tastes like shit.
It takes another ten minutes before the boat reaches us, and the moment it does, I’m reduced to a pile of blubbering emotions. Tears are springing to my eyes, and I’m not sure whether to feel relief or anxiety.
This won’t be the first time I’ve had to pretend to be someone I’m not. But this just might be the last.
Chapter 35
Sawyer
“Enzo Vitale?” one of the coast guards questions from the other end of the boat, checking over Enzo’s wounds. “There was a massive search party for you, but they didn’t look out this way. You’re far out from the Australian coast.”
I can’t hear what Enzo murmurs back, but as usual, he looks positively annoyed.
I turn my attention back to the coast guard treating my wounds just as he finishes putting the splint on my wrist.
“Thanks, Jason,” I say.
Enzo found the keys to the cuffs on Sylvester’s dead body, but the bright red rings of irritation remain, accompanied by the laceration on my hand.
“We’ll get you to a hospital to have it properly treated,” he responds.
He already noted the tattoo on my leg, but Enzo and I decided trying to hide it would only seem suspicious. If they don’t see it now, they’ll most likely see it in the hospital.
We decided to say it was an act of rebellion against Sylvester, and considering it’s definitely not professional—it’s believable. I've never been gladder that my first tattoo was by a man at a bus stop.
My anxiety took over, so I’ve kept quiet. Sensing my unease, Jason talked to me the entire time. Told me all about his sick dog back home and how he’s recovering from a surgery that removed the cancer from his ear.
“You both will have to go to the station immediately after treatment.”
“Okay,” I say, injecting as much confidence in my tone as I can muster. That urge to run still lingers, but I push it away. I refuse to cower and hide any longer.
And this will be the last time Enzo and I will ever have to tell a lie in the name of survival.
“Do you have a last name, sweetheart?” the policewoman asks, her brow pinched with concern.
Her accent is strong, but her voice is soothing. She’s an older woman with white hair, gentle brown eyes, and soft hands. I don’t know why I remember that… It was the only thing I could focus on when she grabbed ahold of my own and said I was safe now.
Safe.
It’s something I’ve never really felt before. Not until Enzo—when it was me and him against Sylvester, and then again when Officer Bancroft held my palms between hers.
It only makes me feel worse that I’m lying to her.
My mouth opens, then closes. I don’t actually know the answer to that question.
We’re at Port Valen’s police station. We spent all of yesterday in the hospital, where my wrist was put in a cast and I was treated for smoke inhalation. Enzo was also treated for the smoke, along with his concussion. He has bruising across his face from when he was hit with the gun, and his back and right shoulder, assumingly from when Sylvester threw him down into the hole.
They allowed us both to stay the night there before sending us off to the station for questioning this morning.
“I’m not sure,” I say weakly, blood rising to my cheeks.
Officer Bancroft might assume it’s embarrassment, but truly, it’s because I’m terrified that I’m fucking this up. None of this sits right in my stomach or my head. Sylvester’s daughters deserve to have the recognition for what they endured, and here I am, selfishly erasing one of them for my own benefit.
It makes me sick.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Can you tell me a little about what happened when Enzo first arrived?”
I clear my throat, glancing around as if I’m going to find the answer written on the walls. “My… my dad saw him lying out on the beach u-unconscious. He, uhm, he told us to hide, then took the batteries out of the handheld radio and waited for E-Enzo to come in.”
