I stand in line and place our orders, before moving to the side to wait for my name to be called. I used the name Justin this time. While I wait, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through news sites, looking for anything about Carl and the small town.
Nothing yet. But that doesn't mean it's not coming.
The waitress brings my coffee and I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat ground me. My knuckles are still bruised from the bar a week ago, faint yellow and green now, almost healed. The split skin from Carl is scabbed over, barely noticeable, but it still lingers.
I think about Lisa and the way she looked at us when she drove away, with a grateful smile and wave. She's not stupid. If the cops come asking, she'll remember. And they will come asking. Carl's body will be found and the timeline of events will be constructed. Eventually, down the line, someone will connect the dots.
The question is, how long do we have?
A week? A month? Longer?
I don't know. And not knowing is the worst part.
The barista doesn't make small talk, as she hands me our sandwiches and coffees. I leave cash on the counter, no credit cards means no paper trail, and walk back out into the parking lot.
Roxy's exactly where I left her, camera in hand, photographing something through the windshield. When I climb into the driver's seat, she lowers the camera and takes the coffee and sandwich I offer.
"What were you shooting?" I ask.
She gestures toward the truck stop. "The semis. The way they're lined up. It looks like a graveyard."
I glance over. She's right. The rows of trucks do look like tombstones. Markers for something dead or dying.
"You going to sell that one too?"
"Probably," she says as she takes a big bite out of her sandwich. We stay in the truck and finish our food before heading back onto the highway, travelling west. The sun is setting behind us, casting long shadows across the road, and the sky is streaked with orange hues, and if you study it close enough, the sunset looks like a wound.
"We need to talk about what happens next," I say after a few miles, finishing off my cigarette that I throw out of the window. Ever since I joined Roxy, I have cut back a lot. Turns out I replaced one addiction with another, her.
Roxy looks at me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we can't keep doing this forever. Moving from town to town. Eventually, someone's going to catch up, or worse, someone will recognize us from the news if they manage to get close enough descriptions."
"So what do you want to do?"
"Vanish for good."
"How?" she asks.
"We kill our names. Leave a trail that leads nowhere and start over somewhere no one's looking."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup.
"You've been thinking about this."
"Yeah."
"For how long?"
"Since the bar. Since I accepted we weren't going back."
She nods slowly. "Where would we go?"
"Somewhere remote, ideally off the grid. Mexico, maybe. Or Canada. Somewhere we can build a life that doesn't involve running."
"And the art?"
"You keep doing it. Just under a different name with different buyers."
