6. Lochlan
SIX
Lochlan
T he navigation app says we’re approaching the final hour mark. If I’d continued driving the way I had been when I got off that call, we’d be there by now, but I had to stop. Lourdez was about to puncture my seat with her perfectly manicured fingernails.
I can probably go a little faster.
Something feels off as I try, the vehicle sluggish in a way it’s never been before. The speed decreases despite my foot flattening on the gas.
“What the fuck?”
Lourdez turns from her phone. I’ve pretended not to notice, but she’s been talking to Amelie about me for half of the journey. Nothing bad, mostly about her own guilt, and that’s why I continued to look after that first message. I don’t know because it’s made me feel just as fucking awful.
“What’s wrong? Does it always judder?”
“It never judders.”
“Well, it’s done it at least twice since you picked me up.”
“Maybe you and cars just don’t mix well.”
“Mine isn’t the one playing up right now.”
“No, yours is on the side of the road somewhere back in Portland with a fucked suspension, and god only knows what else.”
“Is that what it was?”
“No idea. I’m not a mechanic. But it was lopsided.”
“Wasn’t that just because of the banking?”
We lose more speed, and her question goes unanswered.
“I’m gonna have to pull over.” I drag the steering wheel, and we roll to a stop on the side of the road.
“I guess you don’t know what’s wrong with this one?”
“Not a fucking clue.” I punch the steering wheel, my anger getting the best of me, not wanting to waste minutes on the side of the road.
Lourdez jumps at the sound.
I run a hand through my hair because I don’t have time for this shit. My brother could have hours left, and if that’s the case, I want to spend every fucking one of them at his side.
I open the door, ready to step out and look underneath for a problem that I hope I won’t fucking find because I know I won’t find anyone to fix it and fast in this weather.
Heavy winds blow the door shut, and a flurry of snow rushes inside.
“You’re out of gas.”
“What?” I turn to Lourdez before my eyes rush to the dash, where it does, in fact, show that my tank is empty.
Impossible. “I filled up before coming.”
“And how long does it usually last?”
“Longer than this. It must be something else.”
“Well, maybe something else made it run out quicker.”
“Or maybe it’s just something else.”
“Then why is your tank showing empty?” her tone is sharper, almost demanding an answer I don’t give because I have no fucking clue why my tank is empty.
I’m still eyeing the tank and its minimal miles when I grip my phone from the dash and make a quick call to a tow company.
The guy on the phone tells me they’ll get to me as soon as they can, but I know what that means. It won’t be any time soon. And I know there isn’t a fuel station for another twenty miles.
I won’t get there.
I slump back in my seat, and I don’t even try to stop the tears rolling from the corner of my eyes because there is absolutely nothing I can do until help shows up.
Why the fuck is this happening to me?
How the fuck didn’t I notice ? I was too distracted by everything around me. The timer on my brother’s life, Lourdez being in my car.
Fucking everything.
Everything is just too fucking much, and I can’t take it anymore.
My fingernails scratch at the skin on my wrist, digging into the scar I gave myself when the police first released me after questioning.
The idea of prison didn’t seem as scary as death. Not my own, but I’d spend my life there if my brother could see out his to his senior years.
If only that were an option.