The hood came up, the zipper slid closed. A decent disguise—so long as no one looked too closely at my face.
Erich gave me a small, lopsided smile of approval before we headed back to the car, the doors shutting quietly behind us as we drove into the night.
We passed only one other car, heading in the opposite direction. No one to stop. No one to notice when Erich slowed near the crash.
I pointed out where it had happened—the place the car veered off the road, down the slope, into the tree. The skid marks were still visible. If I squinted my eyes hard enough, I could see smoke rising from the wreck.
Thankfully, most of it was hidden from the road.
I didn’t want to see it again.
Erich wanted to stop—to assess the damage before deciding whether to call it in—but I told him it wasn’t worth it. It was bad enough that one of us had seen it.
I wasn’t sure how much of my numbness came from the alcohol and how much came from the shock. It came in waves—awareness, then nothing. Adrenaline, maybe. Or denial. It dulled the guilt sitting heavy in my chest.
Because I knew.
My presence in that man’s life had ended it.
I had come to this town with no purpose beyond taking what I could and leaving. But that night, I’d taken more than money.
What would his life have been like if he’d never met me? Would he have gone home with his friends? Finished school? Gotten married? Had children?
Would he have mattered to someone in a way I never could?
Instead, he crossed paths with me—and now his brother, his friends, his parents would be planning a funeral.
And I had come crawling back to Erich—the one I’d tried so hard to provoke. I dumped the consequences at his feet, knowing he would handle it. Clean it up. Get me out.
He always did.
He’d walk me back to the room. Sit with the phone cord in his hands, debating whether to call it in. And we wouldn’t. Someone else would find it. Someone else would ask the questions.
Not us.
No one would ever know the truth. Not about us. Not about what we did, town to town.
That boy’s parents would bury him believing he’d driven drunk. Alone. They’d blame the bartender. Or themselves.
If he hadn’t met me, maybe Henry or Kelly would’ve taken him home.
If he hadn’t met me, he might still be alive.
Erich would be angry. I knew that. But he wouldn’t show it—not tonight. Not when I was like this.
He’d stay calm. Ground me. Save the lecture for later—when the shock wore off and I was forced to sit with what I’d done.
With how reckless I’d been.
How dangerous.
To him. To us. To that boy.
This man I was beginning to love… I made everything harder for him. I was a liability.
If I hadn’t been there, he would’ve had a clean night. Easy money. No complications. No mess to fix.
No me.
