Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
New Year's Day
MADS
The suitcase sits open on the bed like a hungry mouth waiting to be fed. I throw in essentials, not bothering to fold anything. A scarf tumbles out of my hands, and I feel a sharp ache looking at it—green cashmere, Domhnall's Christmas gift from last week, still carrying his scent.
Fuck me, this is harder than I thought.
My hands want to shake, but I won't let them. I've been preparing for this day for months now, ever since that first message in the chat room. If you're reading this, you're already in trouble.
I was already living on borrowed time. Taking what didn't belong to me. And now the bill has come due.
There's a picture of Anna and Domhnall on the dresser, a candid shot he took of her laughing at something he said. I pick it up, running my finger along the curve of his jaw. Then I force myself to set it down, face-first against the wood.
This isn't my life. It never was.
From the moment I woke up and saw the Dallas Morning Post with our photo splashed across the social pages, I knew it was over.
That stupid fucking photographer caught me outside the gala, cigarette in hand, my face furious and exposed.
There's no hiding now. My careful camouflage has been blown to bits because I couldn't keep Anna from playing fucking society wife.
I should've left that night. But I couldn't.
"You let her have Christmas," I mutter to myself, stuffing jeans into the bag. "And you let yourself have New Year's."
Last night plays through my head on a loop.
The way Domhnall looked at me when the clock struck midnight, like he knew exactly who he was kissing.
Like he could see every sin I've ever committed and still wanted to press his mouth to mine.
And after, in our bedroom, the way he took me was slow and deliberate.
No games, no pain, just his eyes locked on mine while he moved inside me.
"You're here," he'd whispered, hand curved around my cheek. "Right here with me."
And for once, I didn't want to run. I wanted to stay. To belong to him in a way I've never belonged to anyone.
The memory slices through me, sharper than any knife.
But he's at work now, and I need to be gone before he gets back. Clean break. No messy goodbyes. That was always the plan.
I reach into my pocket, pulling out the letter I wrote. I place it carefully on his pillow; it doesn't explain everything, just enough. I tell him I'm sorry but not that I love him, even though the words burn in my throat like acid.
The clock on the nightstand reads 1:17 p.m. I need to go.
I look around the room one last time, committing it to memory—the rumpled sheets still bearing the impression of our bodies. The bathroom door left ajar. His watch forgotten on the dresser. All the pieces of a life I was stupid enough to think I could keep.
I zip the suitcase closed with finality and drag it down the stairs.
The house is quiet and empty. I stand in the entrance hall for a moment, letting in the silence. It feels like a physical thing, this emptiness. Like a weight pressing on my chest until I can't breathe.
"Get it together," I hiss, digging my nails into my palm until the sting brings me back. "You knew this was temporary. You always knew."
I force myself to move, just like I always forced myself to move, back in the old days. I did a thousand things I couldn't stomach every day.
What's one more?
I load the car quickly and efficiently as always. The trunk slams shut with such decisiveness that I flinch.
I slide into the driver's seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine rumbles to life.
I can't afford to look back. One glance and I might break, might turn around and crawl back into bed even knowing it would get us both killed. Donny's face flashes in front of my eyes.
Never. I'll never let them hurt him because of me.
The wheels screech as I pull out of the garage and down the driveway. The suburbs of Dallas slip by—perfect houses with perfect lawns, all those normal people living their normal lives, oblivious to the monsters that walk among them. That I used to help. That are now hunting me.
I'll head northwest, through Oklahoma. Change cars in Tulsa. Change identities in Denver. Keep moving until I'm sure I've lost any trail. Standard protocol for people like me who need to disappear.
The road narrows as I cut through one of the smaller neighborhoods, taking back routes to avoid main highways.
A glint in my rearview mirror catches my attention—a black sedan, two cars back.
Coincidence? Maybe.
I make a right turn onto an even smaller street.
The sedan follows.
Dammit.
I speed up slightly, testing. It matches my pace.
"Fuck."
Adrenaline floods my system, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. I'm being followed. I knew this could happen. Shit, I thought I'd have more time—but here we are.
How long had they been watching the house, waiting for sight of me?
I accelerate, making a sharp left onto a winding road flanked by trees. I know this area—there's a small bridge ahead over a creek that sometimes swells in the winter months if it storms. I mapped escape routes months ago.
The sedan speeds up, gaining on me. I check the rearview again. There are two men in the front seat, both wearing sunglasses despite the January gloom.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I slam the steering wheel.
A sudden impact jolts me forward—they've rammed my back bumper.
"You fuckers," I snarl, jamming the pedal to the floor.
The car lurches forward, but the sedan stays right with me, closing the distance. I can see the bridge approaching—a small concrete span over a steep culvert. The creek below is barely a trickle now, just enough water to darken the concrete.
Another jolt as they ram me again, harder this time. My head cracks into my side window as the car fishtails, tires screeching as I fight to regain control.
I need to make a decision—fast.
I spot my opportunity—a sharp left just before the bridge. At the very last second, I wrench the wheel, cutting across the oncoming lane. The sedan shoots past before slamming on its brakes, the driver clearly caught off guard.
I pull my car over, throw it into park, and jump out, racing across the road. I position myself carefully, right in the center of the road, directly in their path, but with the small culvert hidden from view by a scrubby tree.
The sedan backs up, turning to face me. Through the windshield, I can finally see their faces clearly as they pull their sunglasses off to get a better look at me standing there.
My blood freezes, then boils.
The D'Angelo brothers.
Giuseppe and Marco. Human traffickers who deal in young girls.
Men who once offered my father millions for access to a network of vulnerable Sudanese refugees that runners were helping escape Darfur to reunite with their families in Egypt.
Men whose deal I sabotaged by corrupting the data, right before my father disappeared.
I should've known they'd find me eventually.
The car revs, engine growling like an animal. I raise my hands, standing perfectly still in the middle of the road. Defiant. Daring them, even though I'm theoretically surrendering.
"Come on, you pieces of shit," I hiss under my breath.
They accelerate straight toward me, exactly as I knew they would. These are not men who use guns. Too impersonal. They prefer to watch suffering up close.
I stand my ground, calculating the exact moment—
Three... Two... One...
At the last possible second, I dive to the side and over the flimsy guardrail, tucking my body into a tight ball as I hit the sloped concrete of the culvert.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, pain exploding across my back and neck as I slide down the rough surface and cling to brambly bushes at the edge of the concrete.
Above me, I hear the screech of brakes, a frantic honk, then a tremendous crash as two tons of metal plows through the guardrail. The sedan soars over my head like a grotesque metal bird before nose-diving into the concrete drainage thirty feet below.
The impact is catastrophic. Metal screeches. Glass shatters. Something hot hits my back as I crouch down with my hands over my head.
I don't stay to check if they survived. The angle of the car's crumpled hood tells me everything I need to know.
Ignoring the burning pain shooting through my shoulder, I scramble back up to the road, half crawling, half climbing over the broken guardrail. My breath comes in harsh pants, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I stagger back to my car, nearly falling into the driver's seat. My hands leave bloody prints on the steering wheel as I pull back onto the road, tires spinning on the loose gravel.
I drive in a daze, pure instinct taking over. Get on the highway. Keep to the speed limit. Don't attract attention.
Two hours pass in a blur of concrete and guardrails, the rhythm of the road a dull counterpoint to the throbbing pain across my back.
Eventually, the insistent sting becomes too much to ignore, and I pull off at a desolate gas station—the kind with a single pump and a bathroom key attached to a splintered wooden block.
Inside the grimy bathroom, I peel off my jacket, twist to look at my reflection in the cloudy mirror. There's a jagged gash running diagonally across my shoulder blade, still oozing blood, probably from flying debris when the car hit. It looks worse than it is, I think.
I clean it as best I can with rough paper towels and water that smells vaguely of sulfur. It stings like a motherfucker, but pain is an old friend. I've had worse. Will have worse again, probably.
As I press a damp towel to the wound, I feel that familiar shifting sensation—like the ground tilting beneath my feet, the world receding behind a curtain.
No. No. No. Not now.
"Stay away," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I need more time."
But it's already happening. The bathroom blurs around me, edges softening, colors fading. I grab the sink to steady myself as my consciousness begins to slide sideways, making room for her.
My last thought is of Domhnall—of his face when he finds my letter. The way he looked at me last night, like I was something worth saving.
I'm sorry, I think as darkness closes in. I'm so fucking sorry.
And then I'm gone.