The second day, I destroyed my phone. Not the burner, but the old one. The one with my real number, my real contacts and digital footprint. I took it apart piece by piece. SIM card snapped in half. Hard drive smashed with a hammer. Battery removed and disposed of separately. I scattered the pieces across three different dumpsters in three different towns.
Dom also destroyed Gary’s phones, along with his wallet. No traces of us linked to him physically anymore.
Roxy's old connections. Severed.
The third day, which is today, I'm documenting our death and preparing for the resurrection.
I move the photograph from developer to stop bath to fixer. The image stabilizes, becoming permanent. Dom's face, frozen in sleep, will exist forever now. Even after he stops being Dom.
I hang the print to dry and start the next one.
By the time I finish, there are thirty-seven photographs hanging from clothesline strung across the bathroom. Thirty-seven images of the last moments of our old lives. The van. Dom's hands. My reflection. The motel room. The highway. The sky. The darkness we've been living in.
I stand in the red light and look at them all.
This is my goodbye and how I process death, by telling its story, making it beautiful and refusing to look away.
These photographs will stay with me, hidden from prying eyes. Our history of how we came together and what we went through. When I look at these it will remind me of a special time. The temptation to leave some of these pictures here for the police to find is my intrusive thoughts trying to take over. To tease the authorities, to make them see they can’t touch us. That Dom will always make sure that we’re five steps ahead. But I will resist as luck always runs out eventually.
I turn off the red light and step out of the bathroom.
Dom is awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. He's watching me with those dark eyes, and I can see the understanding there. He knows what I've been doing. He knows I've been saying goodbye the only way I know how.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah."
I sit beside him and he pulls me against his chest. His hand finds my throat, a move I’ve come to love, but not squeezing, just resting there.
"Soon we become new people," he says.
"Soon."
"You ready?"
I think about the photographs hanging in the bathroom and the burned sketchbooks. I think about the destroyed phone and the old Roxy, the one who was alone and afraid and searching for truth in death.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm ready."
He kisses the top of my head and we sit together, both of us preparing for the end.
Part 2: Marcus & Reno
The parking lot only has three cars. A gray sedan. A blue pickup and a black SUV. Dom says Marcus is the one waiting in the sedan with the engine running and the windows tinted dark.
Dom pulls our van into the space next to him and kills the engine. He takes a deep breath before opening the van door.
"Let's go," Dom says.
We get out and slide into the back seat of Marcus's sedan. The interior is very clean, with that new car smell even though the car is old. Marcus doesn't turn around, he hands an envelope over the seat without looking at us.
"Everything's in there," he says. His voice is rough, dull and disinterested. "Passports, driver's licenses, social security cards, birth certificates. Employment history dating back five years. Tax returns. Bank statements. Everything you need to be convincing."
Dom opens the envelope and pulls out the documents. I watch his face as he examines them. The passports are perfect as far as I can tell, I can see our photographs, but with different names. James Brennan. Roxy Brennan. Married, from Portland, Oregon. He's a contractor. I'm a photographer. We've been together for seven years.
It's all there, a complete life, fabricated and normal to the outside world. The average mundane couple.
"The IDs will pass any standard check," Marcus continues. "I've got them in the system, DMV, Social Security, the works. Everything to prove that you existed long before today. It shouldn’t raise any suspicion."
