“Of course he does,” I frown, irritation flaring back to the surface. It’s as if Wyatt is always searching for the easiest way to piss me off and he succeeds every damn time. His eyes roll, landing on me with a condescending tilt to his head.
“Nixon practically signed your death warrant when he forced you to join Waversea. If he was really concerned about your safety, he’d have sent you straight to that pretty little safe house. Not enroll you in a school where your name was listed on the registry for anyone to find.”
My sneakers scuff against a moss-covered root as my mind whirls, astring of weak protests leaving my lips. Wyatt doesn’t bother backtracking to save my feelings. He never does.
“There’s something I can’t dispute,” Wyatt rolls his shoulders, as if his next words might pain him. “And that’s Nixon’s love for his wife. Cathy shattered him when she had that affair, and despite the many he had in retaliation, he loved her endlessly.” His breath clouds in the cold air as he exhales. “I’ve thought long and hard about the day they brought you home, and the sudden shift in Nixon’s demeanor. You gave them hope. A reason to try and be a real family again. And I do think they got that, at least for a while. The Christmas portraits were practically sickening to receive each year.”
I sense, rather than see, the eye roll that follows, Wyatt’s voice dripping with disgust. But I don’t stop him, savoring the truth from his perspective at long last.
“I know you won’t like hearing this,” he mutters, stepping over a fallen branch, “but Nixon’s love for you died when Cathy did.” The words punch through my chest, hollowing me out from the inside. “You remind him of her betrayal. Of the very man who killed her and has been chasing you ever since. He’s tried to protect your feelings, all while pushing you away. I’d consider it his parting gift if I were you.” Wyatt’s pace remains steady, his voice unwavering. “It’s a much softer approach than he took with me.”
A small rock rolls behind my shoe and I lurch sideways, directly into Wyatt’s arms. He stares down at me, so many secrets hidden within his emerald eyes. My fingers tighten around the sleeve of his hoodie.
“You know exactly where he is, don’t you?”
The branches overhead whisper the answer Wyatt refuses to give me in the breeze. The damp earth shifts beneath my sneakers as I right myself, pushing away from his hold. With it, Wyatt takes the little warmth I had. I decide to drop the topic, refocusing on walking and getting the hell out of here.
The day stretches on, the monotony of the forest broken only by our occasional bickering and Baxter’s enthusiastic detours. It’s taxing, both physically and mentally, but it’s better than the silence. Silence gives me too much time to think about the time we’re wasting. About what could be happening to Meg, what the Souls are doing. I supposethat’s what caused me to start an argument about the fact Die Hard isnota Christmas movie.
“You clearly haven’t seen it,” Wyatt tries to brush me off.
“I have seen it, and I stand by my opinion.” I hold my head high, stepping over a twisted root crossing our path.
“The soundtracks are Christmas songs. It takes place at a Christmas party, for fuck’s sake! It’s a Christmas movie.” Wyatt quickly sounds exasperated, his hands flicking out in a stressed movement. I find I’m quite enjoying how easy it is to rattle him.
“It’s an action movie, which, for your information, was actually released in July. No one releases a Christmas movie in July.”
“There’s snow at the end! John McClane’s wife is called Holly-”
"Shh," I hold up my hand.
"Did you justshushme?"
"Shhh!” I say again, putting my hand in front of his face. “Listen!" I stop mid-step, my ears straining to catch onto the foreign sound. It’s faint beneath the rustling leaves and distant bird calls, but it’s there. A low rumble in the distance. My heart leaps.
"A car!" I gasped, the word exploding from me like an answered prayer. "Wyatt, we’re saved!" Without waiting for him, I lunge forward, dropping my pack to scramble up the muddy bank. I’ll pick up my stuff later. For now, I just need to stop that damn car and put an end to this torture.
My hands claw at the earth, dirt packing under my nails as I drag myself higher, desperate to reach the road before the sound fades. The rumbling grows louder, fueling my adrenaline. Salvation is so close I can taste it.
Then, out of nowhere, a crushing weight slams into my back, driving me face-first into the slick ground. The impact knocks the wind clean out of me, and before I can process what’s happening, Wyatt has me pinned in a full-body hold. He drags us both down the slope, away from the road, away from the sound, away from help.
“What the actual hell, Wyatt?” I wheeze, writhing beneath him like a live wire. He flips me over and claps a hand over my mouth before I can say anything else. His green eyes lock on mine, wild and frenzied, an edge of something that almost looks like fear. The sound of the car grows deafening, and I freeze beneath him. My mind races. This isn'tjust panic. It's something worse. The vehicle roars past above us, the noise receding as quickly as it came, leaving us alone in the suffocating silence of the forest.
I go limp, the fight bleeding out of me. Only then does Wyatt release his hold, his chest heaving with effort as he retreats, putting distance between us.
“What was that?” I demand, pushing myself upright.
“Nothing,” he replies too quickly, rushing to collect our discarded bags from the ground. I close the gap between us, shoving his shoulder.
“No, seriously. What is going on? Why wouldn’t you let me hitch a ride to the closest town?”
“We don’t know who’s in that car,” Wyatt cuts in, voice clipped. His back is to me now as he shoulders both of our bags, his movements jerky and tense. I narrow my eyes.
“Who doyouthink was in that car?” My tone is slower now, deliberate, as I stalk after him. Baxter is whining, brushing up against Wyatt’s leg and looking up at him for comfort. The following silence is thick; Wyatt’s expression pulled taut. I watch the tick in his jaw beat several times while he struggles with his own thoughts. Tentatively, I reach a hand out and place it on his bicep. “Wyatt, who are we running from?”
“Everyone,” he says without taking his eyes from the ground. Strolling towards a thick, fallen trunk, Wyatt drops down, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. I ease down beside him, my chest seizing painfully.
“When I met with Fredrick, he wasn’t alone. There was a whole room of thugs, ex-convicts,” Wyatt sighs, dropping his hands. “Fredrick spoke of owing favors and losing control. He said his men were becoming restless, and if he didn’t get a resolution, they would start acting out. They were bored of the cat and mouse. They wanted…”
