Chapter 58
RUE
I stare at the door long after Noah leaves. Part of me is frozen in sick disbelief, and the other…
She’s just really fucking angry.
I don’t cry. I’m past tears. I’m in the hollowed-out center of a storm where everything is white noise and static. He thinks he’s saving me. He thinks he can scrub the blood off my hands by walking away and leaving me with some cash and a fake story.
He doesn’t realize that without him, there is no me left to save.
I go for my backpack and pull out the letters from Noah. I don’t read them. I lay them out, one by one, all over the bed. They take up most of it.
Then I move to the small, bolted-down desk and find the motel’s stationery—a few sheets of thin, yellowing paper with the Desert Oasis logo fading at the top. My hand is steady as I pick up the cheap plastic pen.
If I’m going to be a victim, I’m going to be a victim of the truth.
To whom it may concern, I write, the ink scratching loudly in the quiet room.
Thomas Noah Peterson did not kidnap me. He did not force me.
Every step I took, I took beside him. Every drop of blood spilled was a choice I made.
I killed the man in Hereford, Texas. I shot him in the throat, and then I unloaded his own revolver into his body.
I killed Matthew Zendetti, too. I stabbed him, threw my engagement ring in the lake, and then pushed Matthew in with him.
I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of it.
I write until my wrist aches. I write about the details in the farmhouse—how I opened the drawer and those pictures are burned into my brain forever. I write about the way the world looks when you’re running for your life and finally feel alive for the first time.
They probably won’t understand that.
I wrote three letters. One for the police, one for Matthew Zendetti’s mother, and one for mine. I want them to know that Ruth Iverson died at Moccasin Lake, and the woman who replaced her doesn’t want their version of a ‘safe’ life.
I spread the pages out across the bed, a paper trail of my own destruction on top of Noah’s letters. I want them to be the first thing anyone sees when they walk into this room.
Then, I walk over to the bedside table and pick up the phone Noah left behind. My fingers tremble now, the cold finally reaching my bones. I dial the number I’ve seen plastered on every news crawl for weeks. The tip line.
It rings once. Twice.
“U.S. Marshals tip line, thanks for calling.”
I breathe out, the words dying in the back of my throat.
“Hello?” the woman’s voice pierced my ears.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “My name is Ruth Iverson,” I say, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else. Someone who’s ready to hang themselves.
“Miss Iverson? Is Noah with you?” Her voice strains, and I can already hear the excitement.
I look at the empty space on the bed where he should be. “No… He’s gone. It’s just me. You can probably trace this.” I end the call, erase the note, and then move to the bathroom. I smash the phone into the tile and then toss it into the sink.
I’m sure they’ll still find information. But it’ll be too late.
Noah will be in Mexico by then.
But for me? It’s done. In twenty minutes, maybe less, this room will be swarming with men in tactical gear. I’ll be handcuffed, read my rights, and locked in a cage.
And Noah will be officially free of the girl who ruined his life.
I sit on the edge of the bed, right in the middle of my confession letters.
I smooth out the wrinkles in his hoodie—the one I’m still wearing, the one that still smells like woodsmoke from Black Jack and him.
I close my eyes and wait for the sirens.
I listen for the distant wail of authority coming to take me back to a life I no longer recognize.
Minutes crawl by. The neon sign outside flickers, casting a rhythmic red glow through the gap in the curtains.
Pulse. Fade. Pulse. Fade.
Then, I hear it. Not a siren.
It’s the scream of tires. A car skidded to a violent halt right outside my door. My heart leaps into my throat. They’re here already. And they didn’t use sirens.
Footsteps thunder down the walkway—heavy, desperate, and fast. I brace myself, clutching the edges of the mattress, preparing for the command to get on the ground.
The door explodes inward, the lock splintering as the frame hits the wall.
I gasp, shielding my eyes from the sudden burst of moonlight, but the figure in the doorway isn't wearing a badge. He’s breathless, his chest heaving, his hair wild from the wind.
“Noah?” I whisper, the word breaking in the air.
He stands there, staring at the letters scattered across the bed, then at the tear tracks on my face. He looks at me with a mixture of agony and fury that makes my breath catch.
“Rue,” he chokes out, taking a step toward me. “What the hell have you done?”