He must have been waiting.
He must have been watching the house.
His car jolts forward the moment we turn the corner.
My stomach drops.
My eyes burn.
“Aunt Susan?—”
“Don’t worry,” she says, gripping the wheel with both hands. “He can’t tail me. I’ve lived in this town for half my life. I know every back alley they’ve paved and every one they forgot to.”
She takes a sudden right.
Then a sharp left.
Then another, fast enough I have to grab the handle above the window.
We shoot through a narrow street I’ve never noticed before, past two churches and a row of closed shops, weaving through Middletown like she’s been training for this moment.
“Hang on,” she says.
“What are you doing?”
“Losing him.”
And she does.
She doubles back through a side street by the marina, cuts across the old bridge, and merges onto the coastal highway heading toward the Cape.
The ocean stretches wide and cold beside us.
The sky is pale.
My heart is heavy.
I sink back into my seat and finally let a quiet sob slip out.
Aunt Susan keeps one hand on the wheel and reaches the other over, resting it gently on my knee.
“You’re safe,” she says.
“We’re getting out of here.”
I stare straight ahead.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I believe her.
The highway hums under the tires, steady and low, almost like a lullaby if my chest didn’t feel like it had been hollowed out.
Aunt Susan doesn’t push conversation. She keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes focused, shoulders tense enough to show she’s still half-expecting Leo to pop out from behind the next sign.
We drive in silence for twenty minutes before she signals left toward a Dunkin’ Donuts off the highway. It’s almost empty, just a bored teenager wiping counters and a guy in a fishing jacket waiting for a bagel.
Aunt Susan orders without asking me, which I appreciate. I can’t make choices right now. My brain feels like wet cement.
“One large toasted almond latte,” she says.
