The woods behind the motel stretched into darkness, broken only by the distant glow of gas stations and the hum of the highway. Matt's breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed through low branches and wet grass, Kevin's old duffel bag banging against her hip.
Every few steps, she stumbled the night cold, the ground rough, her mind still spinning with everything he'd done. Everything they'd done.
She could still feel his hands on her skin, his mouth whispering lies she'd wanted to believe.
Run, his voice echoed in her head. Don't look back.
Half a mile away, headlights cut through the trees black SUVs crawling along the back road, beams sweeping the brush like searchlights. Richard's men. She ducked low, pressing herself to the damp earth. She could smell gas and pine and her own fear.
A single branch snapped nearby a man's voice cursing under his breath.
Matt's pulse slammed in her ears. She forced herself to crawl deeper into the brush, swallowing sobs that threatened to give her away.
Not like this, she thought. I won't go down like this.
When she reached the fence line, she paused. On the other side: a service road, empty at this hour. A chance. Maybe her last.
She pulled herself over the fence, ripping her palm on the wire. Pain cleared her head. She hit the ground running.
Back at the motel, Kevin's knuckles were slick with blood his or theirs, he wasn't sure anymore. One of Richard's men was on the floor, groaning. The other swung a heavy flashlight it connected with Kevin's shoulder, sending shockwaves of pain down his arm.
Kevin grunted, staggered back, then lunged. He slammed the man into the flimsy drywall. They crashed through the cheap laminate table, splinters scattering like confetti.
For Emily. He could see her smile. Her small hand in his.
He grabbed the man's head, slammed it into the floor once twice until the fight went slack. Kevin dragged himself to his feet, chest heaving. He could taste copper on his tongue.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A single name lit the cracked screen: Richard Holloway.
He laughed a hoarse, humorless sound that echoed off the motel's peeling walls. He swiped to answer.
"Kevin Thompson," Richard's voice rasped, half fury, half poison. "You think this is over?"
Kevin leaned against the bed, smearing blood across the sheets. "It is over. Check the news."
Richard barked a sharp laugh. "You think exposing me makes you a hero? You think anyone will care when you're rotting in a cell? Or a ditch?"
Kevin pictured Matt, alone on some back road, clutching the bag he'd packed for her. He pictured Emily's hospital bed, cold and silent. And he pictured Richard still pretending the world owed him its silence.
"I think," Kevin said, voice low, "you're out of time."
Richard's voice shifted cold, smug. "And your girl? Did you tell her what she really was to you? Or did you let her dream a little longer?"
Kevin closed his eyes, fighting the knot in his chest. "She'll live. That's more than you deserve."
Richard hissed something ugly then the line went dead.
Kevin dropped the phone, breathing ragged. He knew they'd be back more men, more guns, more violence. He'd die here if he had to. It was worth it.
He staggered to the window. Flashing lights cut across the lot sirens, at last. Police. Reporters. The final act.
Miles away, Matt stumbled onto the highway shoulder. A gas station flickered ahead neon lights buzzing like insects. She pulled the hood of Kevin's jacket tight around her face, clutching the duffel bag.
Inside, the cashier stared at her bruised, dirt-smeared, eyes wild. She dropped a stack of cash on the counter. "Bus ticket. North. Anything."
The clerk hesitated, then nodded. Ten minutes later, Matt sat at the back of a half-empty bus, knees drawn to her chest. The engine hummed. Rain streaked down the window.
She pressed her forehead to the glass. Kevin Thompson, she thought. Lover. Liar. Weapon. Wound.
She hated him. She needed him. And she'd never see him again.
When the bus pulled away, Matt didn't look back.