Chapter 4
RUE
He’s alive. He hates me. But he’s alive.
I’m pretty sure I’m still operating under the pure shock of that, as I slip back into my mom’s house, Bullet undisturbed on the couch.
The house is completely silent, which only makes this entire mission more eerie. There are no creaks from my mother’s bedroom. No voice calling my name. The only noise is the steady percussion of rain against the windows, and the quiet electrical hum of the refrigerator.
I need my keys, my wallet, clothes, and anything else I can grab quickly.
In the absence of light, I navigate by muscle memory—the creaky floorboards, the loose kitchen tile, and the dip in the living room carpet that always trips your heel. I keep my arms tucked to my sides, so I don’t bang into anything and wake the monster that lives here.
I breathe shallow and keep my head down as I gather my things.
I stop in the kitchen and rifle through the pantry.
I grab enough shit to fill the front pocket of my backpack, including Bullet’s dog food, then move to the fridge.
I take a few bottles of water and a Ziplock of cheddar cubes, then close the door so softly it doesn’t even click.
And then I stop.
Her purse. It sits on the counter, untouched.
Don’t do it, Rue. You killed a man over stealing. Don’t become a fucking thief.
But then again, she did get my dad’s massive life insurance policy payout—all while fucking Mr. Wilson, too.
I crack my jaw and then give in, grabbing it.
I open the wallet, seeing a rainbow of loyalty cards, two twenty-dollar bills, a driver’s license, and a library card.
I take the twenties, careful to leave everything else untouched, and shove them in my pocket.
Guilt fizzes under my ribs, but I ignore it.
She owes me…
But dammit, I can’t do it.
I spin back on my heels and shove the twenties back into her purse. Knowing her, she would notice and then report it or something. I reach for a notepad from the stack of random shit and pen out a quick note.
Mom, I can’t stay here anymore. You were right. I’m going back to California. You should take care of yourself. I’ll call when I can. Hope Eliza can help you out. Love, Rue.
I leave it attached to the notepad and slide it next to her purse, where she’ll see it first thing. A blast of guilt in a different form hits my chest, but it’s short-lived.
She’ll be fine without me. She always has been.
I adjust the backpack on my shoulders, double-check the keys in the front pocket of my sweats, and then double-check down the hallway. Her door is still closed, no shadows moving under the crack, no scrape of her boot on hardwood.
Time to go. I head for the living room, grabbing the leash off the rack.
Bullet is still curled up on the living room couch, snoring so softly it sounds like an air leak.
His paws are dirty, probably from some secret adventure he took when I wasn’t watching.
I kneel next to the couch and slide my hand under his ear, scratching the way he likes.
His eyelids flutter, and he lifts his head, his tail thumping a slow rhythm against the cushion.
“Hey, old man,” I whisper. “You ready for a new adventure?”
He pushes his head into my palm, nose wet and cold. I scratch him behind the jaw, feeling the rough patch where his fur’s been rubbed thin by the collar.
“I’m sorry for ever leaving you behind,” I say, my voice cracking.
He presses his paw into my thigh, leaving a perfect muddy print on my jeans. I don’t even try to wipe it off. I just keep my hand on his head, grounding myself in the steady warmth of him, the years of love and loyalty he’s poured into this house, even when it was collapsing in on itself.
You were the only good thing here.
I clip his leash, and Bullet immediately perks up, jumping up as I stand to my feet. “We need to get moving. I have no idea where we’re going, though.” The thought leaves my stomach swirling as we head for the side door.
Mexico? Canada? Somewhere else?
Outside, the air is so cold it burns my lungs.
The rain’s easing up, but it’s being replaced with a thick fog, swallowing the driveway and bleeding into the tree line.
I swallow hard and lead the way to the Pathfinder, not a sign of life around us as I pop the driver’s side door open.
I toss my backpack to the passenger seat, and Bullet hops in, heading for the backseat.
Right beside Noah.
As I press the Engine Start button, his pale blue eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Did you grab a gun?”
I make a face. “No.”
Something flashes across his expression that looks a lot like annoyance, but he just nods and pats Bullet on the head. Honestly, he looks completely fucking exhausted, but as much as I want to ask him how the hell he got out of the lake…
I keep the question to myself.
So, I put the SUV in reverse and head down the washed-out driveway, my stomach knotting up at the thought of running into the same officer I did on the way down to the lake.
But as I navigate and turn onto the gravel road, there’s no one in sight.
They really do think he’s dead. I glance back at Noah, and my throat catches. He looks so… bad. His skin is pale, his lips not quite their normal color, and he’s still soaked to the bone.
“There’s a blanket and towel under that seat,” I tell him, my voice breaking the silence as I make my way toward the highway. “My mom got rid of all my dad’s clothes, so there’s nothing I could’ve grabbed for you from there.”
Noah gives some sort of incoherent response, but does grab for the stuff I have tucked away. I breathe a sigh of relief as I risk another glance, seeing that he’s now covered with the blanket.
He’s going to get blood on it. But it’s fine.
“We should take you to a hospital,” I say, as the thought resonates. “Maybe further out of town. I do have a first aid kit somewhere in here, I think…”
“No,” he answers, his voice in more of a groan. “Just take a right at the intersection when you get there.”
“That’s a weird route…”
“Drive, Rue,” Noah barks.
I shake my head, realizing we’re just sitting at the intersection of the lake turn-off and the highway. “Sorry,” I mumble.
I hesitate, but follow his instructions, my heart rate kicking up a notch in my chest as I pull out. I keep my eyes peeled on the dark stretch of road, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle in the downpour.
We just have to get out of town, and we’ll be good… right?
I count the seconds between the wiper blades. Every other beat, the blade judders and leaves a nasty streak, and the world beyond the glass doubles, then blurs, then snaps back into focus as the next swipe clears it.
It’s like my brain is locked in the same rhythm of forget, remember, forget, remember.
The SUV’s heater blasts full, but it does nothing for my hands, which have welded themselves to the wheel. My fingers are white, knuckles straining, palms raw and sticky. I take each curve ten miles under the speed limit, as if that’ll make us invisible.
We’re maybe fifteen minutes out, on the way to somewhere and nowhere, before Noah finally speaks.
“Pull over at the turn off on the right in a quarter mile.”
My heart jumps in my throat as I recognize exactly what he’s referencing. “Not happening. We are not going to your old clubhouse.” Matthew’s old clubhouse, too.
His voice is weaker than before, but the anger in it is the same as ever. “I said pull over, Rue.”
“Unless you’re going to puke or bleed out on my upholstery, we’re not stopping.” I glance in the rearview and catch his stare—flat, cold, and pissed.
He holds my eyes in the mirror, then looks away. “Just do it,” he mutters. “Please.”
I swallow the word ‘please’ like a fucking splinter. And then swing onto the side road.
The pavement goes from passable to crumbling in two seconds flat, and the drop from the shoulder makes the whole car shudder. Noah grits his teeth and curls up on himself, and I almost apologize, but the words die on my lips.
The path is a mess, deep mud swallowing the wheels, but I push on. Branches whip against the side mirrors, and the dashboard traction control lights flicker as we hit a puddle the size of a bathtub.
If I get stuck, this is going to be a disaster.
I drive panicked and blind for a hundred feet, then the trees open up, and there it is—a blocky concrete building behind a curtain of chain-link, ringed with rusted cars and motorcycles. The whole thing is lit by floodlights, but they’re pointed out, not in.
I hate this place.
I put the car in park and let the engine idle, my eyes drifting to the entrance. I’d only ever been to this shithole with Matthew once.
But he had been here all the time, and never invited me to come along.
If I had come with him, I would’ve seen Noah. Maybe things could’ve been different.
The sound of him shifting in the backseat snaps me back to reality. “Tell me you’re not serious,” I say, voice barely a whisper, as I catch the flickering lights from within. “This isn’t a good idea. They could call us in.”
He slides toward the passenger rear door and then looks at me. His face is gray, his lips raw, and for a second, I think he might actually die right here in my backseat.
“I need help,” he deadpans. “And this is the only place that might give me a leg up. Worst-case scenario, tell the cops I took you by force or something. You’re great at making up stories.”
“If I go in there,” I chew the inside of my cheek, ignoring the jab, “They might recognize me…”
“They’ll recognize me first.” His voice softens, but just for a second. “And you’re going to stay right here. If it takes any longer than thirty minutes, or if you hear something concerning, leave.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what consists of concerning?”
He kicks the door open. “I think you can imagine that on your own.”
“You’re sure about this?” I reach out and catch his good arm, a wave of anxiety suddenly crushing my chest. “I don’t want them to… hurt you.”
Noah’s lip twitches upward, as if he might smile, but it dies to a shake of his head. “Just stay here. Don’t talk to anyone. If something happens, drive away.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“Lock the doors.”
He leaves before I can answer.
I watch him walk up the gravel path, fighting the urge not to chase after him. When he gets to the door, he pauses and rips it open with his good arm.
Then he disappears inside.
I start counting breaths. One, two, three, four. I lean my head forward, resting against the steering wheel, and close my eyes.
Please get us out of here.