Next is the home goods store which is all flannel throws and overpriced candles. Sutton holds one up to my nose.
“Smell this.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That is not pumpkin spice. That’s regret.”
She laughs, loud and unselfconscious, and for a moment I forget where I am. Who I am. We argue over colors and textures like normal women doing normal things.
And I feel normal.
I’ve never done this before. There aren’t an abundance of friends to be made when your mother is a junkie and the whole school knows it.
We leave with bags cutting into our hands and head back toward the SUV. The driver takes them without comment, stowing everything neatly in the trunk.
As we pull away, Sutton kicks off her boots and stretches her legs across the seat. “Colter’s gonna hate that candle.”
“He hates joy,” I point out.
She grins. “True.”
The radio hums softly, some classic rock song I recognize but can’t name. We pass the diner, the feed store, the gas station on the corner where an old man watches us go by a little too closely.
I turn my head.
“Do you ever get used to it?” I ask suddenly.
Sutton glances at me. “Used to what?”
“Being watched.”
She exhales slowly. “No. But you learn who matters. Who is truly on your side and who is only next to you because of what you represent.”
I nod, rolling that around in my head.
The SUV slows.
Not dramatically, but enough to notice. Crimson Ridge isn’t a place you experience traffic.
I glance out the window and catch sight of a truck idling at the curb, engine rumbling low. The drivers face is obscured by the glare of the windshield, but something about the scene causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.
“Is there usually this kind of traffic?” I ask.
Sutton shrugs. “Not really?—”
The world explodes sideways.
Metal slams into us with a violent crunch, glass bursting inward as the SUV jerks hard to the left. My shoulder collides with the door, pain detonating down my arm. Sutton screams my name as everything tilts, spins, then slams to a dead stop.
My ears ring. My vision blurs.
I try to breathe but can’t find the air.
Blood erupts in my mouth.
“Peyton—are you?—"
The passenger door is ripped open.
The driver shouts something sharp and furious before he’s dragged backward, disappearing from view. I barely register it. My focus narrows, sharp and frantic, locking onto the open space where safety vanished.
