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He’s the one who made this nightmare happen. He’s the one who drove me into a situation where I had to kill. He’s the one who made everything spiral beyond control, yet my face is the one on the news. I’m the villain in the story. I’m now the cautionary tale mothers will tell their sons.

I can’t sit still; energy vibrates my bones, my muscles twitch, but I can’t pull my attention from the TV. I feel hot. Clothes are too constraining, and I find myself working to get them off as panic elevates.

Jumping from the bed, I rush to get the bag I dropped open, the one Preston had packed. My hands shake as I dig through the pile of clothes.

My fingers wrap around the cold grip of a small black handgun; it fits perfectly in my palm, as if it has been made just for me. It belongs there. The heaviness of it is a comfort, solid and real in a world that feels increasingly unmoored from reality.

I stare at the weapon I’m holding, thinking about the news report, about the manhunt that has undoubtedly started. About that life that’s over and the new one that follows in its trail.

20

Ghost

The tourist map of the desolate town I’d found in the lobby takes me to the closest 24-hour store, but when I pull into the parking lot, the building is dark. A hand-scrawled sign taped to the glass reads: CLOSED DUE TO POWER OUTAGE.

Of course.

Perfect.

I sit there for a second, suffocating in anger. A guttural, frustrated growl claws its way out, burning my throat as it releases. I rest my head on the cool leather steering wheel, though it does nothing to calm the fire burning behind my eyelids.

Going back to the motel is certainly hell on earth. I don’t want to walk across that carpet again, feeling the sticky spots where God knows what has been spilled, or breathe that musty mildew air that coats your lungs. But more than that, much more than that, I don’t want to walk through that door and face Wynnie empty-handed with nothing to show that I’m capable of taking care of her. I failed her at the simplest task, and in our situation, every failure feels catastrophic. I’m the person she’s putting her faith in; I want to prove all of this is worth it.

I give the interior of the door a hard punch before I begin the drive back to the motel, my foot heavy on the accelerator, as if speed could outrun disappointment.

My fingertips are the only thing that touches the key as I unlock the door, trying to avoid as much grime and contamination. The metal is slightly sticky, and I have to force myself not to think about how many hands have touched it before me, but it’s what I see on the other side of the door that makes me forget about that.

Wynnie.

She’s sprawled upside down on the edge of the bed, stripped down to her black lace bra and underwear that still somehow seems to look elegant in this hellhole. Her hair puddles on the floor beneath her head in a mess of tangled red waves. Her pale skin seems to glow against the dingy comforter, while her back arches over the edge of the bed, one arm trailing toward the floor.

For a split second, she reminds me of a Renaissance painting, a tragic goddess fallen from grace, offering herself to me. But that isn’t what halts my intake of air and makes the pulse point in my neck throb.

It’s the gun.

She has it clutched tightly in one hand, her slender fingers wrapped around it, one fingertip resting far too comfortably on the trigger. One eye is closed in concentration, the other trained right at me as she points the black barrel at my face.

It feels electric in the room, with suspense that comes right before a lightning strike.

“What are you doing?” I ask, low and careful, the way you’d speak to someone balanced on a ledge.

Her laugh is strange; light, but cracked around the edges. A single tear slides sideways from her closed eye, trailing up onto her temple where it vanishes in her hairline. She doesn’t move the gun; the aim remains steady on me.

“I’m… not… dangerous.” Her tone is dreadful, almost melodic, and it makes the hair on my arms stand. Ironic, she makes such a statement while pointing a gun at me. “But you and I know that this ends in blood, Ghost. There’s no scenario where we come out clean. I’m already all over the news… my face, my name, it’s all out there for public dissection. They’re calling me dangerous, just like you do. They’re going to chase us until they find me.”

I can see in her eyes the weight of becoming a headline; the girl I’d fallen so deeply in love with is disappearing beneath the media’s opinion. Stepping further inside, every muscle in my body pulls tight, ready to spring into action if needed. I approach slowly, acting as a bomb squad member approaching an infernal machine; she’ll either fall into my arms, seeking comfort, or explode and take me with her.

“Wynnie… come on…” I stay quiet, gentle, reaching toward her with steady hands; I hope to coax the weapon from her grip and somehow pull her back down to earth. Before I can get close enough to touch her, she flips the gun in one fluid motion, pressing the metal to the soft underside of her chin.

“Wynnie.” Her name falls from my lips like a prayer, a plea to any God out there who might be listening to us. Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I don’t dare let them fall.

Her green eyes shimmer beneath the dim light, looking brighter due to her reddening face. They reflect depths of pain I can’t even fathom. They’re the eyes of someone who’s seen too much, lost too much. Haunted and breathtakingly beautiful.

Pointing the gun at herself breaks my heart far more than when she had it pointed at me. She would be okay without me. I do believe she could wiggle her way out of it. But me, without her? I’d bury myself in the ground with her, suffocating on dirt until I was with her again.

“We’re going to prison, or we end up dead,” her hushed voice trembles. “And I’d rather die in this shitty motel than continue to live as the woman who seduced and killed Robert Grant. That’s all that I am now. Killer: Wynnie Jackson. I never thought this… I didn’t think about this.”

I run a trembling hand over my face, trying to think through the cloud of panic. I’m trying so hard not to fall apart when she needs me to be strong. My mind races through all the possibilities, escape routes—anything that might save us both.