Anders hesitated. I saw the calculation running behind his eyes, the rapid-fire assessment of liability, danger, the structural integrity of the bridge, the absurdity of the situation. He was frozen. Just like he had been on that stage ten years ago. Rigid. Correct. Useless.
"Give me the keys," I snapped, snatching the rental fob from the counter before he could formulate an argument.
I didn't wait for permission. I grabbed my leather messenger bag, habit, purely habit, as if my sketchpad could stop bleeding, and kicked the front door open.
The wind hit me instantly, a physical blow that carried the scent of wet pine, churned earth, and salt spray, ripping the climate-controlled warmth of the house away in a heartbeat.
"Simon, wait!" Anders shouted, his voice nearly lost in the howl of the gale.
But I was already running, boots sinking into the mud, sprinting toward the black beast of an SUV parked in the drive.
I threw myself into the driver’s seat, jamming the keyless start button. The engine roared to life, a mechanical growl that matched the dark, aggressive adrenaline flooding my veins.
The passenger door ripped open. Anders climbed in, his pristine suit soaked in three seconds flat, his golden hair plastered to his forehead. Daniel piled into the back, clutching the heavy orange trauma kit we kept for set accidents, his face set in a grim line.
"You drive like a maniac in clear weather," Anders hissed, buckling his seatbelt with hands that were visibly shaking. "Do not kill us before we even get there."
"Then don't distract me," I snarled, slamming the shifter into drive.
The tires spun, spitting gravel and mud, screaming for traction before finding purchase. The SUV lurched forward, tearing down the narrow access road that wound along the cliff's edge like a precarious ribbon.
The wipers were useless. They slapped frantically against the windshield, fighting a losing battle against the deluge. The world was reduced to shapes and values, high contrast, low visibility.The erratic strobe of lightning, the black looming mass of the forest, the grey wash of the road.
I leaned forward, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white. My eyes, trained to notice the smallest details in a composition, dissected the chaos.
Tree leaning left, roots compromised by saturation. Avoid the shoulder. Water pooling in the dip, hydroplane risk. Downshift. Keep the revs high.
"Slow down," Anders warned as the back end of the SUV fishtailed near a sheer drop-off, the tires flirting with the void. "Simon, seriously!"
"She doesn't have time for slow," I shot back, correcting the skid with a sharp, instinctual twist of the wheel.
A grim sense of déjà vu washed over me, heavier than the rain, darker than the sky. It wasn't a storm. It was the feeling of watching a disaster unfold in slow motion while being powerless to stop it.
Ten years ago. The gymnasium. I had been sitting in the top row of the bleachers, the "nosebleed section" where the outcasts, the smokers, and the stoners congregated to be invisible. I had my sketchbook on my knees, ignoring the Valedictorian's speech, trying to capture the way the stage lights hit the dust motes in the stagnant air.
I had been drawingher. Tessa Kane.
Not because I knew her, she was the untouchable genius, the girl who walked through the halls hugging her binders like a shield, but because she possessed a tragic kind of symmetry. The way she stood at the podium, white-knuckling the microphone stand, she looked like a solitary figure in a vast, empty landscape.
I saw the shake start before anyone else did. I saw the way her knees knocked together. I saw the tension line in her neck snap.
And I did nothing.
I kept drawing. My hand had moved across the paper, capturing the curve of her collapsing spine, the terror in her eyes, the way the crowd shifted from bored respectful silence to predatory, mocking laughter. I documented her destruction like it was a still-life bowl of fruit. I was the Observer. The Spectator. The Artist who watched the world burn so he could get the shading right.
I hated that boy. I hated him with a bitterness that tasted like bile and old graphite.
"Right! Go right!" Daniel barked from the back seat, his voice booming close to my ear, snapping me back to the wet asphalt.
I wrenched the wheel. We drifted around a blind corner, the headlights cutting through the gloom to reveal a massive fallen hemlock blocking half the road. I mounted the muddy embankment, the SUV tilting precariously, suspension groaning under the torture, before slamming back down onto the pavement with a bone-jarring thud.
"Jesus Christ," Anders breathed, bracing himself against the dashboard. The smell of his fear like sour bourbon filled the cabin, mixing with the metallic scent of the heating vents.
"We're close," I said, my voice tight, my eyes locked on the road. "The GPS says one mile."
"The bridge," Anders said, his voice flat, detached. "The alert said the bridge was compromised."
"We'll find a way," I said. "We aren't watching from the bleachers this time."
