"What were you doing with him in the first place?" Camilla blatantly asked as she stood in front of the driver's door, searching for the car keys within her oversized designer handbag.

"Chris," correcting her distinguishable pronoun, "wanted to help me through the paparazzi." I glared at my tiresome reflection from the outer passenger window; drifting in bewilderment whether his assistance was tactical or genuine.

"But you had his jacket on," she immediately retorted while drawing out the keys from her bag. "And his arm was around you?" The SUV beeps several times as she unlocked the vehicle using the standard-made fob.

"Don't remind me," I waited until we both got into the car before explaining myself and the situation through its entirety.

I combed through every detail, description, word-said, and action made as if I was submitting an official report to the damn mayor himself. Thinking back at the whole situation, I was a complete moron for even considering the idea of conversing with my stubborn-minded father. I forgot, with being in solidarity for so long, that dear-old-dad was not a man of repent.

However, I'm not sure where Chris stands behind all this... "Everything else," referring to the final on-camera photos she showed me a few moments beforehand at the waxing studio, "was hearsay."

"Wow," Camilla sighed lightly as she pressed the ignition button that turned on the vehicle. "That's some messed up shit."

Even with all the training and conditioning I've experienced, it was moments like these where I wish I had telekinetic, mind-reading, abilities. Knowing what's ticking in, not only her head, but everyone else's too. All the secrets, hidden agendas, and the whatnots—the world would just be a better place if people spoke the truth.

"Did you think I'd leave Marco?" Reassuring her of possible doubts regarding my relationship with her entire family, and brother. What I wanted to say was: "Do you think I'm that two-faced?"

"I know, I know, I overreacted," she said as she placed the automatic gear in reverse, exiting out of the parking spot. "But can you blame me? It's not like you two were strangers—it's a fucking trope, ya know"

True. Chris and I did have a history—I don't blame her. I should, however, blame corporate consumerism and the free-standing press. Love dramas sell. Even made-up ones.

She rotated the steering wheel, moving the vehicle onto the main roadway. "Marco saw those pics before I did, Becca. He wasn't ecstatic either."

"Of course, he saw them first," I thought. "He probably has my name on an internet alert." Curiously also ran through my thoughts, wondering how jealous Marco was? "On a scale of one through ten?" I asked.

"What, ten being furious?" She quickly asked as we stopped at a red light.

"Yeah," I replied with a simultaneous nod.

With a stern look on her face, she turned toward me and declared, "Over nine-thousand."

I felt my lips quickly twitch downward with surprising dread. Why? Why would he even think for a second, I would leave him like that? I mean, how many damn times do I have to prove my commitment to him? Fuck.

Camilla continued, "I'm actually quite surprised he didn't haul-ass and drag you away."

"What exactly did he say?"

"Nothing too out of the ordinary," Camilla pressed on the gas as the streetlight turned green amidst our conversation. "Just copious amounts of text messages and several calls, not too bad."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Na," she grabbed her phone from middle cup-holder counsel and tossed it to me. "I wanted to give you your thirty minutes...you were only gone for twenty"

Smart woman. I looked downward and lit up the phone to find the numeric password screen.

"The password is 2620," she directed.

I held back a quick smirk as I entered the password. The numbers, telephonically, spelled out the word BOB—which, the last time I checked was the name of her most successful self-starting, personality-based, vibrator company—"Because every woman deserves BOB..." Rebranding the wheel apparently is the secret key to success.

Marco's text was already displayed alongside a link of the Tribune news article with the picture of Chris and me.

I said the mall, not the fucking warzone!

FIRST CALL - TEN MINUTES AGO

Pick up your fucking phone.

Is she still with him?

SECOND CALL - TEN MINUTES AGO

Cam, answer me dammit! I can see the read receipt

THIRD CALL - SEVEN MINUTES AGO

I tracked the car; I know where you are.

The last text sent only five minutes ago read: I'm sorry, sis. Please call back. I need to know if you're okay. If Rebecca's still with you.

"Wow," I unexpectedly exhaled.

"Yup, men" Camilla nonchalantly replied. "Like fucking toddlers."

I ignored her sarcastic comment as I selected his name and placed a call back. It wasn't even half-a-ring before he answered.

"Look, Cam," he immediately spoke. "I'm sorry, it's just—"

"Marco, it's me."

"Kitten?"

"I need you to shut up and listen," I wanted to quickly end the subject of past lovers, as something more pressing needed to be established. "Stop what you are doing and leave the state now. They've convicted you for Rafie's murder."

Silence encircled the other side of the phone's end and within the car. I looked over at Camilla, who now was, with her lips pressed firm, fearful for the forthcoming conversation.

"When?" Marco finally replied.

"Now!" Asserting myself, I continued the straightforward conversation. "Marco, don't think about doing anything stupid, it'll just build up the case against you. Just leave."

"But—"

"No buts," I directed. "Listen, it's a big case from what I've gathered. They'll probably get your dad for association somehow. They've all been waiting for this moment."

"You know me—" he corrected himself, " I can't leave."

Knowing very well what my suggested course of action would be. The venues, the clientele, the business, the money—everything his father accomplished would fall into other hands.

Whether it was the deviant west-siders, pulling the strings on his assassination, or the south-side drug operating punks, who want to rule the northern market—everyone was ready to take their bite.

"You can't stay."

"They can't convict shit!" Camilla exclaimed out of anger in the background of our conversation.

"Like I said," directing my attention to her while still holding the phone up to my ear. "They have all the evidence they need to convict him, and whomever else by association. Even with the world's best lawyer, the minimum would be two years, depending on the charges they decide to file."

"Fuck," she slowly exasperated.

"I didn't do it, Kitten." Marco carefully added from the other side of the phone line, "It wasn't me."

"I know, baby." Truth be told, the Marco I knew would never do such a thing, but then again, there's this whole other side of him I missed out on, a whole other side I don't quite trust.

"Look, your brother and I, we talked—" he paused for a moment, as I could feel his displeasure arraying from the other end of the conversation. "But I didn't kill him, I swear on your life."

Amidst my internal perplexing, Camilla unexpectedly grabbed the phone from my clutch and placed it up against the car dashboard, automatically transferring the call into Bluetooth speaker-mode.

"Okay we get it, you didn't kill Rebecca's brother" she proclaimed. "But what about dad? He can't go to jail for this shit."

"No," Marco agreed, "he can't. It wouldn't be fair."

"Right, okay." Camilla questioned, "What's the plan?"

There was a quick pause before Marco spoke, "Kitten?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"With something of this severity, would my dad be saver on international accords?"

"Any place without extradition would be convenient." I knowingly answered.

"Montenegro it is," Camilla proclaimed as we exited out of the highway and onto local traffic.

"But, if they already have you on a warrant, which they probably do. You'd need to fly out from Canada, maybe South America—with fakes."

Existing the country while living in the era of Big-Brother is not easy, but it's not impossible either. The key, with anything, is to have a plan and avoid cameras.

"I already got it handled," Marco noted from the other line. "You guys close?"

"Twenty minutes," Camilla answered.

The call went silent as Camilla handed me her phone. "Toss it," she commanded.

"What?"

"Toss the phone out the window."

"You sure it looks expensive?"

"Just throw the damn thing, Rebecca." With that, I rolled down the passenger window and with a sense of might, whipped Camilla's extensively large iPhone onto the busy road.