“There’s a hood on the parka,” I tell her. “Get in. Front seat,” I clarify when she goes towards the back.
“But I thought you said-”
“Backseat was for getting changed,” I reply. “Up front with me while we drive.”
“Why?” she asks. “You need me beside you to keep an eye on me or something? Are you worried I’m going to try to escape? Open the door on some random highway and jump out into live traffic?”
She grasps the front passenger door handle and shakes her head, bitterness curving her mouth. “I’m with you now because I have no other choice, Curse. I literally have nowhere else to go. Papà died three months ago. Mia’s already remarried. The only friends I once had are in Buffalo, and…” She swallows, her delicate throat bobbing. Her hair is still in its wedding style, a low twist at the back of her head that reveals the long line of her neck. “And my husband is dead. I called you,” she says quietly, “because I have nobody else.”
I’m not sure if I should feel satisfied that she’s already been backed into the dark corner of relying on me, or disappointed that this is what her life has come to.
That I’m the only goddamn lifeline she’s got.
I never wanted this for her. I told her that twelve years ago. That I could never be what she needed.
Maybe I was wrong back then. Because she needed a killer tonight. And that’s what she got.
At least now I can rest easy while I’m driving, knowing she isn’t going to dive out of the car head-first the first fucking chance that she gets.
She’s still standing there, unmoving. Admitting that I’m all she’s got left in this world seems to have stolen the last bits of her remaining strength. Her face is stark white beneath her tear-smudged wedding makeup. She stares down at her fingers on the car door handle, but makes no move to pull it open.
“We have to go,” I tell her, shrugging back into my jacket. I don’t know when Messina’s body and missing bride will be discovered, but I sure as shit plan to be out of this city long before then.
“I know.” She still doesn’t move.
A muscle ticks in my jaw like the merciless hand of a clock, reminding me just how much time is passing. In the end, I grasp her wrist and pull her hand out of the way, opening the passenger side door for her myself. She collapses into the seat and stares glassily out the windshield. I do up her seatbelt for her when it becomes obvious she doesn’t plan to fasten it herself. Then, I toss the light pink parka over her like a blanket, close her door, and then get in on the other side.
I start the engine and peel away from the curb immediately. It’ll be about six hours to Montreal – longer if the weather gets dicey the further north we go. It’s already well past midnight, so I’ll likely be driving until after dawn. We’ll stop to sleep eventually, but not until we’re across the Canadian border.
Aurora doesn’t wait until then to sleep. After less than five minutes in the car, she’s practically out cold, curled up beneath the puffy insulation of the parka. I don’t let myself look at her for more than a few seconds at a time, because she’s fucking distracting even sound asleep, and I need all my attention on the roads right now.
I drive in silence, city lights bleeding out around me. A part of me can’t help but feel like this is all a dream. Which makes sense, I guess, since most of the time I’ve spent with Aurora has been inside of my own head. I focus on small details and physical sensations to convince myself this is real. The digital glow of the clock on the dashboard, the numbers not blurred or backwards like they always are for me in dreams. The hum of the vehicle’s engine. The smooth luxury of my brother’s leather gloves encasing my hands as I grip the steering wheel.
Aurora’s perfume.
Little slices of her keep catching my eye as she shifts in her sleep. A loose bit of hair uncoiling from the rest, like a slippery strand of moonlight. The petal-soft curve of a cheek. The restless flutter of her eyelashes as her eyelids quiver with rapid movement beneath.
I wonder what she’s dreaming about.
I wonder if she’s ever dreamed of me.
Nightmares, maybe.
Minutes metastasize into hours. Kilometres grind away beneath the wheels of my vehicle. If Aurora wakes, she keeps her eyes closed and doesn’t let me know it. I pull off main roads into a rural stretch of darkness to swap out the car’s plates – fakes – with another set I have hidden in the trunk. When that’s done, I stop at a tiny gas station. Standing at the car’s side, I fill the tank, my gaze alternating between scanning the immediate vicinity and staring at Aurora through the window. I pay with cash and then we leave.
The weather worsens as we keep going north. Heavy snow is falling by the time we approach the border. The sun is rising, but it’s only a dim grey glow behind the swirling white. Aurora finally stirs, pulling herself out of her slumped position beneath the parka.
“Where are we?” she asks groggily, squinting as she peers out the window. “Whoa. That’s a lot of snow.”
“We’re almost at the border.” We’re in one of the feeder lanes now, heading towards the Champlain/Saint-Bernard-de-Lacolle crossing.
Aurora snaps to attention, like my words are electric.
“Crap. I don’t…What do I do? Do I need ID? I don’t even have my wallet.”
And it’s a good thing, too. Because if the police eventually get involved with the Aurora Bianchi missing person investigation, we don’t need a record of her legitimate ID being used at the border tonight.
“Glovebox,” I say.
