Chapter 52
Brooke
We left Elliot and Sophie in pieces in the warehouse.
The building disappears behind us, swallowed by trees and distance, and I don’t look back. The smell clings anyway. It sticks to my clothes, my hair, the inside of my lungs.
Beau doesn’t ride back with us.
Right after we finished, he wiped the blood from his hands and said he had somewhere to be. A contract he already took before all of this. Another hit.
He said it wouldn’t take long and he’d meet us back in Washington.
Then he grabbed his gear and disappeared into the dark like he always does.
Seth and I packed up our things, took the car, and got back on the road.
Seth drives the way he always does after something like this. Fast enough to put space between us and what we’ve done. Careful enough not to draw attention.
The road rumbles beneath the tires, a low vibration that settles into my bones. Oregon stretches out in long, dark seams of highway, broken by trees and the occasional porch light flickering in the distance.
My adrenaline drains slowly. What’s left behind feels heavy and dull, sinking into my shoulders and down my spine. I watch Seth’s hands on the wheel. His knuckles are split and swollen, streaked with dried blood that has turned nearly black.
The highway blurs past the window, but my mind stays behind in Oregon.
Miles’ voice comes back to me without warning. The promise I made to him in that goddamn manor.
My stomach twists.
Oh my God, Miles.
I am supposed to tell his husband. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to pull the address back from wherever my brain buried it.
River something. River Drive. River Avenue. River Road.
I press my fingers to my temple, angry with myself for not remembering something that matters that much. He trusted me with that. The only friend I had in that sadistic place, and I can’t even keep the one promise I made to him.
My throat tightens, but I force the tears back. I pull my phone out and scroll through addresses in Oregon, hoping something will jog it. That is when I see another Oregon address sitting there.
Samantha’s.
For a second I just stare at it.
If we are going to live like ghosts from now on, maybe it is time. She has probably seen the news. She is probably worried about him. I glance over at Seth behind the wheel and wonder if he will finally be ready to meet her.
“There’s something I want to do before we get back.”
“What?”
“We’re probably not coming back here,” I say. “Once we leave.”
“Yeah.”
Trees blur past the window. “I don’t like the idea of people just wondering what happened to you. Thinking you vanished.”
His jaw tightens. “We’re wanted people, Brooke. Everyone should wonder.”
“I know,” I look over at him. “But this is different.”
He exhales slowly. “You’re talking about my mom.”
“Yes.”
“She gave you her address?”
“Yes.”
He nods once. There is no big reaction. Just a small shift, like something inside him clicks into place.
“She might’ve seen the news,” I say. “Your name was everywhere. If I were her, I’d be scared you were hurt or dead.”
Silence fills the car again. The road keeps humming beneath us.
“You really think she cares?”
“Yes,” I reply. “She just needs to know you’re okay.”
He drums his thumb against the wheel once, then stills it.
“How long?”
“Five minutes,” I say. “Ten, max.”
He exhales through his nose, a quiet release that sounds more tired than resistant. “Give it to me.”
I unlock my phone. I read the address slowly. Seth enters it without comment, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the screen. The GPS recalculates and speaks up, announcing our turn.
The drive stretches on. The highway narrows. The forest thins. Houses begin to appear, spaced far enough apart to suggest privacy instead of safety.
Seth slows as the house comes into view. He doesn't signal. He doesn't turn into the driveway. He pulls to the curb across the street and lets the car idle.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks.
The house is ordinary. One car sits in the driveway. The curtains are drawn halfway. A single light glows in what looks like the living room.
I break the silence. “Do you want to come in?”
He exhales through his nose, eyes still fixed ahead. “No. Not now.” After a moment, he adds, quieter, “Maybe after we finish all this.”
I nod, “Okay.”
Neither of us moves.
“She just needs to know you’re alive,” I say gently. “That’s all.”
Another pause stretches between us. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
“Tell her I’m okay.”
I look at his hands. I see the dried blood ground into his knuckles and the tension locked through his shoulders. I don’t say that he is hurt in ways she can’t fix.
I open the door and step out, then close it softly behind me. I make it halfway across the street before I stop.
I look back.
Seth is still there. His posture hasn’t changed. His grip on the wheel stays firm. His gaze is fixed forward, caught somewhere between the windshield and the house beyond it. He doesn’t follow me.
He isn’t ready yet.
I walk up to the door and knock once, firm but careful, then let my arm fall back to my side.
The door opens almost immediately.
Samantha stands there like she has been waiting just behind it, shoulders tight, eyes already glassy and braced for the worst. When she sees me, something in her face breaks.
“He’s okay,” I say before she can ask.
She exhales sharply and grabs onto me, pulling me into a hug that feels both desperate and thankful. “I’ve been watching the news,” she says into my shoulder. “Every update. Every press conference. Every time his name came up, I thought that was it. I thought I was going to lose him again.”
“He was injured. But it’s Seth. He can handle more than most people.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes red, mouth trembling. “Thank goodness.”
She steps aside and lets me in. The door closes softly behind us.
The house smells like clean laundry and something warm cooking. It smells safe. The normalcy presses in on me, bright and gentle in a way that almost hurts. This place hasn’t been touched by the things Seth and I carry in our bones.
Footsteps move through the hallway.
A girl appears first, talking into her phone, voice animated as she complains about something. She slows for half a second when she notices me standing there.
Samantha glances toward her. “That’s my daughter, Elise.”
The girl lifts a distracted hand in greeting before continuing down the hall, already back in whatever argument is happening on the other end of the call.
A boy follows a few seconds later, rolling his eyes like he has heard the same complaint a hundred times.
“And that’s my son Ryan.”
Ryan flashes his sister an exaggerated look before disappearing after her.
Neither of them stops. Neither of them asks who I am. I am just another adult standing in their house, easy to overlook.
My eyes drift across the room.
They catch on a photograph.
It sits slightly crooked on the bookshelf, like it was moved and never placed back quite right. I step closer and pick it up.
A man with kind eyes and a tired smile stands beside her. Elise and Ryan are tucked between them in the picture.
“That’s my husband,” Samantha murmurs.
I glance over. She is not looking at the photo. Her gaze stays fixed somewhere past the wall.
“He’s the one who helped me when I ran from Richard,” she continues. Her voice remains calm, but something heavy sits beneath it. “He was a lawyer. He worked with a shelter for women escaping domestic violence. He made sure they had somewhere safe to land.”
In the photograph his arm rests around her shoulders, protective without looking possessive. Like he understands exactly how to love her.
“He died of cancer two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
The words feel small, but I mean them.
She nods once, then looks past me for a second like she is deciding how much to say.
“I told Elise and Ryan they had a brother,” she says. “I told them he died when he was little. That they never got to meet him.”
Something tight settles in my chest.
Her gaze shifts back to mine.
“After everything that’s been on the news about Seth, I’ve been hesitant to tell them the truth,” she continues. “I don’t want them to get the wrong impression before they even meet him.”
Her voice softens, but it doesn’t waver.
“I want them to meet him first. I want them to see who he actually is. I know he’s a good person.” She pauses, then adds, quieter, “And I think they’ll love each other.”
I nod, even though something in the back of my mind reminds me that Seth and I are barely holding onto this life as it is. We are one mistake away from losing it completely, and there is a real chance this is the last time we will be able to come here for a long time.
Her expression softens again.
“It’s mostly just us now.” Her gaze drifts towards the old photos. “I don’t have any other family.”
I lower the frame back onto the shelf, my fingers lingering against the edge a second longer than they should.
The question slips out before I think about it.
“Why do bad things happen to good people?”
Samantha finally looks at me. Her smile is soft and sad in a way I recognize too well.
“Maybe people like that aren’t meant for this world. Maybe this world isn’t built for people who try to be good.”
That is a truth I don’t want to carry yet.
Samantha glances toward the door.
“He’s outside?”
“Yes,” I reply. “He told me he isn’t ready yet.”
She nods, like she already knows that will be the answer. She moves closer to the window and looks out toward the street. Her eyes land on Seth sitting in the car, posture rigid, hands on the wheel like he is holding himself in place.
“But, he didn’t want you worrying.” I add. “ He wanted you to know we’re okay.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. We’ll probably be gone for awhile.”
She nods slowly. “I understand. You don’t have to explain it to me. But wait… I want him to have something.”
She turns and disappears into another room. I hear a drawer open, then close. When she comes back, she is holding a photograph in both hands, careful with it.
She presses it into my palm.
“That’s him,” she says softly. “The day he was born.”
The photo shows Seth as a newborn. His little face is red and his tiny body is wrapped in a hospital blanket that nearly swallows him whole.
A ridiculous little orange pumpkin hat sits crooked on his head.
Samantha is smiling in the picture, fully smiling in a way that shows she has no idea what horrors will one day come for her son.
“When he’s ready,” her voice breaks. “I’ll be here.”
She pulls me into another hug, slower this time, lingering. “Tell him I love him. No matter what.”
Samantha doesn’t let go right away.
Her hands stay on my arms. She searches my face one more time.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For coming. For telling me. For loving him.”
I nod.
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t cry. She just nods once, the way people do when they are trying not to fall apart. She steps back and opens the door for me.
At the threshold, she hesitates.
“Wherever you end up, please keep in touch.”
“I will, I promise.”
She leans forward and hugs me one last time. When she pulls away, she straightens her shoulders.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
The night air hits colder now. I stand on the porch for a second, letting my breath even out. Through the window, I can see Samantha move back into the house. I can hear her kids laughing.
I walk down the steps slowly. Halfway across the street, I glance back.
Seth is still in the car, exactly where I left him. He doesn’t look at the house. He doesn’t look at me until I open the door.
Back in the car, the door closes with a muted thud. Seth’s eyes go to my hands before my face. I place the photograph gently in his lap.
He picks it up and studies it in silence. His thumb brushes the edge once.
“She okay?”
“She’s worried,” I reply. “But she understands.”
He nods. He doesn’t say anything else. He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb.
The house fades into the dark behind us.
Neither of us looks back.