Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROXY
Static. Country music. A preacher talking about salvation.
My hand freezes on the dial.
"– found in his vehicle with what authorities are calling suspicious injuries in a suspected robbery. Investigators have not released details but are asking anyone with information to come forward…"
Dom's fingers tighten on my leg and I glance at him. His jaw is grinding, eyes fixated on the road. I can feel the tension throughout his body, but I don't turn the radio off.
We drive for another hour, cycling through stations, listening as the story develops. Each report adds a little more detail. Major stab wound. Missing wallet and phone. Signs of struggle. Blood evidence being processed. Two individuals of interest…a man and a woman…seen in the area.
The descriptions are vague at first, but after a while they get more specific.
"– male suspect described as tall, dark hair, wearing black clothing. Female suspect described as petite with long dark hair, last seen wearing a purple hoodie…"
There it is, the moment we stop being anonymous.
The animal instinct to run that most people would feel hearing their description broadcast across state lines doesn’t happen.
Instead, there's a strange clarity settling over me.
Like the world has finally come into focus.
We're not suspects anymore…we're known. For the first time we are being seen. It’s a euphoric feeling.
"We need to get off the highway," Dom says quietly.
"You’re right."
I take the next exit, a small road that leads deeper into the desert, where there are no signs.
No gas stations. Just empty land and the kind of rest stop that doesn't appear on maps.
The ones truckers use when they want to sleep without being bothered, or where people meet up in secret to cheat on their spouses.
We park in the shade of a rock formation, hidden from the road. Dom turns off the engine and we get out of the van to stretch our limbs. I stand against the hood of the van, closing my eyes and letting the heat of the sun wash over my skin. Dom comes to stand next to me.
"How long do you think we have?" I ask.
"Before they connect us to the truck stop? Maybe a day, less if someone saw us leave."
"And the name-death plan?"
"Needs to happen faster than I thought." He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice the cut above his eyebrow again, along with the bruise forming on his jaw. The leftovers of Gary's fight. I need to note it. I don’t have time to draw it, but I want to capture it so I can draw it later.
"I need my camera," I say.
Dom looks at me. "Now?"
"Now."
I climb into the back of the van and dig through my bag until I find it, my old Nikon, the one I've used for every piece of death I've documented since I was sixteen. The weight of it in my hands is nostalgic.
Dom watches as I set up, his expression unreadable.
"What are you doing?"
"What I always do." I adjust the lens, checking the light. "Documenting."
"I’m not sure that’s a good idea."
"This is how I process it." I look at him through the viewfinder. "You kill. I document. That's how this works."
He's quiet for a moment, then he nods.
"Okay."
I photograph his wounds first. The cut above his eyebrow, still raw and red. The bruises on his knuckles. The scrape on his jaw where Gary landed a hit. Each click of the shutter is meditative, pulling me deeper into the work. This isn't for the dark web or buyers.
This is for me.
Proof that we're existing. That everything we did was real and not a dream. That we crossed the line and came out the other side still breathing.
"Turn your head," I tell him.
He does and the beaming sunlight catches the angle of his jaw, the shadow under his cheekbone. He's beautiful in the way death is beautiful, stark and honest and impossible to look away from.
I photograph the van interior next. The rumpled blankets where we had sex after he killed Gary. The blood-stained shirt in the plastic bag. The cassette player with Disintegration Album by The Cure still loaded inside.
Evidence of a life lived in the margins, of us. Dom moves closer, watching me work. "You're as fucked up as I am."
"Yep, and you love it.”
I lower the camera and look at him. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite the blood still staining his hands.
"If they catch us,” he starts to say, but I place my finger on his lips.
"They won't." I set the camera down and hold onto his neck, lowering his face so he is level with mine. "Because we're going to leave. The new identities, we're doing it now. This week."
"That's not enough time."
"Then we make it enough time. There are always options. We will leave together one way or another."
“In this life or the next,” he says, understanding my meaning. We will not allow ourselves to get caught. We will never be apart, no matter what we have to do. He searches my face, looking for doubt, for any sign that I'm not fully committed to this.
He won't find it.
"Sit down," I tell him. "Let me clean those wounds properly."
He sits on the edge of the bed, the breeze blows through the open doors, clearing the stuffy air from my van, and I grab the first aid kit that will need restocking soon. The cuts from this morning were hasty and quick cleaning before we had sex and drove off. Now I take my time.
Antiseptic. Gauze. Careful fingers tracing every wound.
"He was strong," I say.
"I miscalculated how big he was."
"You could have died."
"But I didn't."
I press a bandage over the cut on his eyebrow, smoothing the edges. "Next time…"
"There won't be a next time." His hand catches my wrist. "We're done hunting. After this, we have to start again and be careful. A complete fresh start."
I think about that, starting over. Becoming ghosts. Leaving behind everything we were and stepping into something new. I thought it would scare me, leaving the thrill behind, but it feels like freedom.
"What names?" I ask.
"Whatever you want."
"I want to keep Roxy."
"Then we'll find a last name that fits."
“Hey, what is your last name? I never thought to ask.”
“It’s Eastwood. Nothing interesting. What about you?”
“Vale,” I say, and he nods, acknowledging it.
I finish bandaging his wounds and sit back, studying my work. He looks like he's been in a fight, but it looks like he has been treated, just like any other guy who has been in a brawl.
"We need to change your hair," I say. "And mine, alter our appearances before we cross state lines."
"I already thought of that."
"And the van?"
"We'll ditch it in California, I know someone who can deal with it after and get us money for it, no questions asked. Then we can get something else. Something that doesn't match the description."
I look around the van that’s been my home for the past three years. The fairy lights. The records. The space where I've lived and worked and survived. Leaving it behind should hurt, but it doesn't.
Because home isn't a place anymore. It's him.
"One week," I say. "We have one week to become ghosts."
"One week."
"And then?"
"Then we're free."
I lean forward and kiss him. My god I would do anything for this man, he has imprinted on me and I don’t ever want to be free from him.
I love how he tastes, like coffee and the desert air, and I want to memorize it.
When I pull back, his eyes are watching me intensely, like he is holding himself back from taking me right now.
"I need to make some calls," he says. "Set up the new IDs and transfer money. Get everything in place."
"Okay."
"And you need to finish your work."
I glance at the camera. "I do."
He stands and moves to the front of the van, pulling out his phone. I watch the way he moves with purpose, the way his mind is already three steps ahead, calculating routes and risks and contingencies.
He's keeping us alive. And I'm keeping us real.
I grab another one of my lollipops and place it in my mouth, before picking up the camera again and photographing him. The way the light falls across his shoulders. The tension in his spine. The phone pressed to his ear as he talks in low, clipped tones to whoever's on the other end.
This is my art now.
Not just death. Not just the truth hiding under the surface.
But us.
The radio is still on in the background, cycling through stations. Another news report breaks through the static.
"– authorities are expanding their search for two individuals believed to be connected to the death of Gary Hollis. Police are urging anyone who sees the suspects to call immediately and not approach…"
I turn it off. We don't need to hear any more. We already know what we are. Murderers. Fugitives. Ghosts in the making.
And in one week, we'll be gone.
I look through the viewfinder one last time, framing Dom against the desert landscape visible through the windshield. The emptiness and endless horizon. The space where people go missing and are never found.
Click.
I set the camera down and start packing. We have work to do. By next week, Roxy and Dom will be dead.
And whoever we become next will be free.