Brian said it like a pact as he pulled from the shoulder, but it resonated like an ill omen. Along the lake road, the comedown from adrenaline abandoned them both in static shock. Warm air blasted from the vents, but Amelia couldn’t shake the chill that soaked to the bone.
“South?” Brian asked when they approached the main highway bisecting Portland.
She fiddled with her purse strap. North meant passing the exit to her house. Everything she loved was north. South led nowhere.
“Yeah,” she whispered and rested her head against the window. The condensation wet her throbbing temple.
Brian navigated the on-ramp, and they journeyed with a gulf of silence between them. It continued past Eugene and farther still when the radio crackled with the twang of a lovelorn cowboy.
Eventually, the rain let up, but in its place, thick fog enveloped the road, and the lamp posts dotting the highway thinned. The only light illuminating the car was the dashboard and occasional high beams from passing travelers.
Brian examined the rearview mirror and slowed until a lone car passed. When it did, he flicked off the radio and glanced at Amelia.
“I need to tell you something.”
Amelia sat up and winced as glass cut into her with a painful throb. “What is it?”
“I overheard something at the party. These two guys—cops, I think—were talking about the Velascos. They said there’s something strange going on. It’s like their whole MO changed.”
“Changed how?”
Fear washed over Brian in stunning fashion. It momentarily staid his tongue before dampening his voice.
“It’s dark. Like, bad juju or something. The brutality of the things they’ve done.” He withheld whatever it was for her sake. “They seemed pretty spooked by it.”
It must’ve spooked Brian, too. He nervously cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.
It didn’t make sense. To Amelia’s father, the Velascos were the known quantity. They were flashy and prone to flaunting their connections and wealth, which meant they got sloppy. The Moriartys were the ones to fear with their doctrine of death and ruthlessness that couldn’t be tamed.
“Are you sure they weren’t talking about the Moriartys?”
“Positive.”
“Did they say why it’s happening?”
“That’s the thing. No one knows what’s changed, just that they’re more violent and depraved, like someone else is calling the shots. Tonight had to be them, right? I mean, did your dad ever mention anything about this?”
Amelia shook her head. “He thought the indictment was a done deal, that he had Philippe Velasco where he wanted him and that was it.”
“Clearly, not.”
Unease crept in with goosebumps that blanketed Amelia’s skin. Headlights flickered behind them once more. The engine roared with Brian’s foot heavy on the pedal until the gas light flicked on. Brian stared at it like the cause of catastrophe.
“It’ll be okay,” Amelia said. “I saw a sign for a station a mile back. It should be coming up.”
At the next exit, Brian pulled off the highway and released ashallow sigh when the car behind them continued into the fog. A mile down a country road, he turned into a vacant gas station.
A corroded tin overhang feebly sheltered four pumps, two of which were out of order. A metal sign hung on rusted chains and groaned with the wind. “Frank’s Fuel and Auto Repair,” it announced in paint-chipped letters. Next to the pumps, a mechanic’s garage looked abandoned with its windows coated in a greasy film.
Brian killed the engine and scrutinized the tiny gas mart attached to the garage.
“Let’s hope someone’s in there,” he said. “We won’t make it to another station.”
Minutes stretched on, but the attendant hadn’t appeared. Brian thumped the steering wheel, and his foot tapped the floorboard. They’d have to go in, that was clear, but he refused to budge.
Amelia patted his knee. “Come on. We’ll go together.”
Outside, her bare legs prickled against the night’s chill. Amelia peered through the garage’s grimy window. A single bulb hung from the ceiling and revealed shelves filled with dented canisters, rusted tools, and piles of junk. Whoever Frank was, he wasn’t repairing cars anymore.
