It takes me ten minutes to find a gap beneath the wood fence large enough to pull Zane through, and another twenty to drag him toward the hill. I’d be able to move faster if I had more light, but I don’t dare use my phone. Even with how remote and isolated the White property is, I don’t want to risk being spotted, not with what I’m about to do. The light from the moon will have to be enough.
The shovel is waiting for me, right where I left it.
I pick it up and widen the grave, then make it deeper, sweat pouring off my brow as the dirt piles up. It’s hard work, and I have to dig fast, but the soil is already loose and I’m able to get the job done. When I finish, it’s just past four o’clock.
I roll Zane in first and then follow him with Sean. The kid lands face up with moonlight glimmering in his eyes. It’s like he’s staring at me, judging what I’ve done.
I’m sorry,I think again. At this point, they feel like the only two words I know.
I turn my attention to the casket, which sits next to me, empty. After all the digging, cleaning it out is easy. I take everything—the pictures, photos, and mask—and dump them into a garbage sack. Then I push the casket in and fill the hole with dirt. I spend a few minutes restoring the earth and concealing it with brush. When I’m done, the area looks undisturbed. Not that anyone would notice if it didn’t.
Even in my youth, Taylor’s parents never spent much time out here. And now that they’re in their seventies, there’s little risk they ever will. It’s not a perfect plan—it’s possible some stroke of bad luck will reveal what I’ve done—but I’m short on time, and this is the best plan I have. With any luck, Zane and Sean will simply disappear.
I survey my work for a moment longer and then hustle back to the van. When I reach it, the sky is beginning to blush.
And then I drive.
The trees slide past like ghosts dressed in white. Through the van’s open window, the clean, sweet scent of sagebrush and the sharp tang of pine fills the air along with the rich scent of earth. I breathe deep and pull them into my lungs. I love these smells. I always have. If I could ever call someplace home, this would be it.
The ache within me grows with every passing mile. What I did to Evelyn was unforgivable. What I did to Bailey was worse. I’d been recovering from the crash in Mexico when I’d forced myself to read the article. It was a brief piece about a Seattle socialite who’d barreled drunk into a family of three and killed twoof them—a man and a child—along with herself. Only a woman by the name of Bailey Nichols had survived. I remember how my stomach dropped in that moment, how I’d rushed to the ocean’s edge and thrown up until a member of the resort staff drifted my way and asked if I was okay.
“No,” I’d replied, wiping strings of vomit from my lips. “Not at all.”
I’d spent the rest of the day doing the same—drinking and puking until it felt like my stomach lining would come up. How had it happened? How had all of my decisions gone so wrong? Three people had died because of me.Three.
And yet I was still alive.
I swore right then and there I would change and become a new person. I’d bury what I’d done forever. I’d never think about that day again. I knew it was far too late for redemption, but maybe I could find a way to survive. I thought I could heal if I returned here to Durango—the one place I’d ever truly been happy, if just for a time. I told myself I’d find a way to impact the world in some small positive way.
So, I did what I did best. I ran and I hid.
From myself.
From what I’d done.
And then I met Avery …
I can still feel her spit on my face, can still see the hate steaming in her eyes. The absolute devastation I never knew was simmering there, right beneath the surface, waiting to boil over because I erased her entire world in an instant.
Just like she’s erased mine.
I park the van behind a hardware store and leave it unlocked with the keys on the seat. I’ve sanitized it as well, scrubbed it front to back withbleach. I can’t do much else, except hope someone steals it. If they do, great, and if not, oh well. Knowing Zane, there’s no chance the thing will lead the cops back to him or anyone else in his circle. Neither will the contents of the casket. It’s gone. I burned it all, and I dumped the guns in the river.
I take my time as I stroll up the street. I’m wearing a new set of clothes I purchased from a truck stop where I took a shower before heading into town. The shirt is a size too large, the jeans too small, but I pay them no mind as I walk slow and enjoy the cool morning weather. Blocks pass along with people. Some of them smile at me. Others walk right on by. It’s strange how these last few moments feel so normal.
When I spot the building ahead, I stop. It isn’t much to look at: a brown stucco blob hulking on the corner of East 2nd Avenue and 10th Street downtown. I’ve only been here once before, on an ancient high school field trip, but I remember the place well. I know what I’ll see when I walk through the doors. An expanse of dull, clay-colored tile floors planted beneath a ceiling long gone yellow with age. The lobby will smell of burned toast and old coffee and long-expired dreams.
And that’s okay, it’s exactly where I deserve to be—but there’s something I need to do before I enter. I pull the phone out of my pocket, surf to my email, and login. I’m not sure how long it takes me to write the email, but I’m having trouble seeing clearly by the time I hit send. Bailey might not ever read it, but my guess is at some point she will.
I wipe my eyes, power off the phone, and toss it in a dumpster, then walk the rest of the way, pausing when I reach the doors.
It’s not too late. You can turn back.
It’s true. There are so many places I could go. I still have money stashed away in a number of rainy-day accounts. I have drop boxes stuffed with cash at several banks across the country along with a storage shed in New Mexico full of everything I’d need to start overagain: fake IDs. Passports. A safe packed with jewelry and gold. I can make it happen. A new life. A different name. A fresh start.
I let out a sad chuckle.Yeah right. I’m done running. It won’t work. Not when I’m the problem. No matter how fast I run, I’ll never be able to outrun myself.
And after this, I’m too tired to take another step.
