“Already moving. You two need to get back here. Now. Don’t stop anywhere.”
“We’re leaving.”
“Mia.” Something in his tone made me pause. “We’ll get him out. I need you to drive and let me work.”
The call ended.
I looked at Lark. “We have to go. Right now.”
We left everything. Half-packed boxes, garbage bags on the floor, the scattered contents of my closet strewn across the bedroom carpet. None of it mattered anymore.
We ran to the car, and I drove way faster than was safe. My hands gripped the wheel too tightly, knuckles white. Larksat rigid in the passenger seat, watching the road like she could make the miles pass faster through sheer will.
The highway opened up ahead of us. Empty Montana landscape stretching toward mountains. Sky darkening at the edges as evening crept in.
My whole body hummed with a fear that had no outlet. Every mile felt like an hour. All I could think about was Coop walking into Oliver’s compound, not knowing?—
The impact came out of nowhere.
A wall of force that slammed into the back of the car and ripped the world sideways. Lark screaming. My hands torn from the wheel. The car spinning, leaving the road, and then?—
Metal shrieking. The car rolling. Rolling again. The roof pressing down on my skull, crushing in inch by inch?—
Glass exploded around us. Airbags punched into my chest and side, driving the air from my lungs. White powder everywhere.
—my legs pinned beneath the crumpled dashboard, blood running warm down my face?—
The car stopped moving. Or I thought it did. Everything was still spinning inside my head.
—four hours trapped in the cold, screaming until my voice gave out, no one coming?—
I tried to breathe. Powder coated my tongue, my throat. The taste of chemicals and copper.
—metal groaning as it compressed, the space getting smaller, knowing I was going to die?—
No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t alone this time. “Lark.” The word scraped out broken. I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open. “Lark?”
A groan. Somewhere beside me. Alive. She was alive.
My phone. I needed to call for help?—
Gone. The phone was gone. Thrown somewhere in the impact, lost in the wreckage.
—the smell of gasoline, sharp and terrifying, and no way to get out?—
The smell hit me now. Fuel. Leaking somewhere. My fingers fumbled for the door handle, slipping on blood I couldn’t see.
—clawing at the window, at the twisted metal, at anything?—
The door ripped open.
But not from inside. From outside.
Hands grabbed me. Rough. Efficient. Hauling me from the crumpled car before I could process what was happening. Was it paramedics? Had they gotten here this fast? That couldn’t be right.
I caught a glimpse of the face above me. Blood running from a cut on his forehead. Expression flat, empty, betraying nothing. The same dead stare I’d seen at Oliver’s compound. Watching everything. Giving nothing away.
Bishop.
