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“Then don't worry about it.”

He nods.

I grab my duffel.

“McConnell.”

I stop at the door and look back.

Bishop studies me for a second. “Try not to get stabbed again.”

“No promises.”

I walk outside.

My truck smells exactly the same.

Leather. Coffee. The faint metallic scent of weapons and gun oil.

Normal.

I toss my duffel behind the passenger seat and climb in.

The engine turns over immediately.

I sit there with both hands on the wheel.

This is what I wanted.

I can go anywhere. New York. Boston. Philadelphia. Down south. Doesn't matter.

Bishop hasn't assigned another job yet.

For once, I don't have somewhere I need to be.

I pull out my phone. No new messages.

I don't open Instagram.

I put the phone facedown in the cup holder. Then I back up and turn around.

As my tires roll down the lane, Bishop's cabin disappears behind the trees.

I don't look back.

Fifteen minutes later, I realize I’m headed straight for Hollow Creek.

I stare through the windshield. “Fuck.”

I could turn around. There's a road coming up in less than a mile.

Take it.

Head south.

Leave Vermont.

The road appears.