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It feels nice for a while, the peace I feel as the miles pass, filled with familiar songs. I sing along in a whisper, drumming my thumb against the leather.

“Welcome back. We, uh, have some breaking news here to read, guys,” the man says.

“Fuck.” I don’t need to know what he’s about to say to know it’s about us.

“Authorities are confirming the fugitive sightings in Nevada and California. Please, seriously, if you’re in the area and you see Wynnie Jackson or Preston Grant, call the cops. These guys are not messing around; the pair are wanted in connection with multiple crimes, including murder.”

Shit.

A cold sweat breaks out across the back of my neck, trickling down my spine. My chest clenches tight, the core of it palpitating so hard it nearly drowns out the broadcast. They’re closer than I ever imagined they would get. The net is closing in around us.

“Grant, age 30, is described as six feet, three inches with black hair and light hazel eyes. Jackson, age 27, is described as five feet, eight inches with dark red hair and green eyes. It says that one of them may be traveling under duress. A reward of fifty thousand dollars is being offered for the information that leads to their capture.”

Fifty thousand, holy shit.

That’s enough to make every single person we pass a potential bounty hunter.

I punch the radio off with my finger, the pain radiating to the bone, but that’s the last thing I’m concerned about. The quiet that follows is deafening, pressing against my eardrums like water. My eyes flicker compulsively to the rearview mirror, scanning for the glow of police lights, then to Wynnie sleeping.

She looks so young in the glow of the car lights, so unaware that everything is surely crashing down around us. Goddammit. We were supposed to have a little bit more time—invisible and untraceable at this point. If we hadn’t stopped at the chapel or the bar, if we had just gotten on the road first thing this morning, we’d already be out on the water by now. The small yacht would already be doing its job, getting us away from here as quickly as possible.

I have to force myself to focus on the road, on the yellow lines that disappear beneath our tires—anything but the crushing weight of what we’re facing.

After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few minutes, I reach over and place a hand on Wynnie’s arm.

“Darling—Wynnie. Hey, you need to get up.”

She stirs slowly, eyelashes acting as wispy butterfly wings fluttering before she finally looks at me, groggy and confused. Her messy bun has slipped to the side from sleep.

“Are we there?”

This can’t wait; I can’t beat around the bush and allow her to fully wake. “The police know we were in Vegas. The bar, too. They just announced on the radio that we’re in the area… Wynnie, they know where we are.”

Her expression changes in an instant; the sleepy confusion is replaced by stark, cold understanding. She sits up straight, arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to keep herself from falling apart. Her lips part, but no words come out.

“They know?” She finally asks.

“They know.”

She looks around outside; there’s nowhere to hide and no time to rest now.

“How much?”

“I assume they’ve figured it all out. They’re offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward.”

“Shit. What are we going to do?”

“We stick to the plan. We get out to the coast, lose the car, and get out of here. Once we’re in the water, we’ll be harder to track; the boat’s not in my name.”

She nods, but her whole body is visibly trembling. “Okay… Okay, yeah, we can do this.”

I take her hand in mine, her fingers icy despite the warmth in the car, hoping that it gives her even a semblance of solace.

“We’re good. We just have to stay ahead of them; I doubt they realize where we’re going. It’ll take some time for them to trace the boat back to me, and by the time they do—if they ever do—we’ll be long gone. Hopefully, already out of the water with the boat ditched.”

Wynnie is quiet for a long period, staring blankly ahead. I want to pull her in to a hug, hold her tight, and promise everything will be okay, but I keep my focus on the road, giving her time to process.

“Why did you do this?”