I move quickly through the door, muscle memory guiding me in the dim interior. I've had this plan ever since I built this place.
I grab my go-bag from under the bed. I collect additional weapons from various hiding spots: two handguns and ammunition from behind loose floorboards, a combat knife tucked beneath the kitchen counter.
In the bathroom, I grab basic supplies and medications. I clock myself in the mirror. My face and hands are covered in blood. I hoped they wouldn’t be again. I promised myself they wouldn’t be. But I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would. It didn’t feel like I was making a mistake. It was the right choice. The only choice.
I quickly wash what blood I can from my skin.
After collecting the supplies by the door, I pour lamp oil across the floor, over the furniture, and splash it up on the walls. I pull out my lighter, flick it open, and drop it without hesitation. Built with my own hands and destroyed by the same.
I watch the flames leap hungrily across the wooden floor and lick at the walls. The heat pushes me back through the door, and I don't look back as I stride to the vehicle.
I feel Naomi's eyes on me through the window as I walk toward my truck, the light of flames framing me and its heat warming my back. I'm positive this only adds to the mystery I've become for her. How I killed that bear. Took out those men. And now laying waste to what she believes is my home. I’ve spent our entire time together analyzing her, and now she's rushing to catch up, reframing everything she thinks she knows about the hunter she took hostage.
I haul everything to the truck and toss duffel bags of all the supplies I’ve collected into the truck bed. I pull off the license plates and replace the ones I've used for the last couple of years with fake ones.
I walk to my cabin, which is now fully engulfed in flames, and toss the old plates into the fire to melt.
I feel nothing for the cabin as I watch it burn.
I’m simply erasing Walker Cole from existence.
Again.
But I am feeling things I haven't felt in a long time.Feelings I thought I never would again. I feel alive in a way I never thought I would again.
And it has nothing to do with what I'm leaving behind. And everything to do with the person sitting in the truck, watching me.
I say nothing as I slide into the driver's seat.
We pull away, the orange glow receding as smoke billows into the gray sky.
Naomi sits silently beside me, her beautiful profile lit by fading firelight. I can feel her studying me, recategorizing everything she thought she knew. The quiet hunter with the sad eyes is something else entirely.
I keep my eyes on the road ahead, focused on putting distance between us and what I've just destroyed. My hands grip the steering wheel, steady despite everything. There’s a long stretch of silence before she says, “You burned down your home for me.”
"It wasn't a home.”
"But why?" Her voice is quiet but firm. "Why sacrifice so much for someone you don't know?"
I meet her eyes. "Because you're innocent." I don’t know the whole story. I don’t know all that much about her. But I know that’s true.
It also doesn’t feel like much of a sacrifice. But I don’t think she’ll believe me.
She looks out her window. "You can't know that."
"I know killers," I say simply. "You're not one."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions. I don’t know her whole story. And she has nothing but more questions regarding mine.
Ipull into the motel parking lot, choosing a spot near the back, away from the office and street view. Naomi and I have been quiet for the rest of the ride, lost in thought or too exhausted to talk. Maybe both.
"Wait here," I say, climbing out. "I'll get us a room."
The night clerk barely looks up from his phone when I enter, just slides a registration card across the counter. I fill it out with practiced ease—false name, false address, false everything.
Pay cash. Decline the receipt.
Two key cards later, I'm back at the truck. Naomi hasn't moved, but her eyes are active and scanning for threats.
