TATE
THE CAR ROLLED forward, gravel crunching under the tires like bones breaking. I sat in the back seat, staring out the window, my reflection ghosted over the trees as they blurred by. My chest felt hollow and my pulse too loud. Every second we drove, the house got smaller in the mirror, and something inside me—something stupid and ugly—tightened.
Freedom.
That’s what I wanted, right?
Buzzcut was behind the wheel, sunglasses on even though the sky was dark. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on. I pressed my palms to my knees, trying to steady them, but the tremor wouldn’t stop. My throat burned. My chest ached like I’d left something behind—no, someone—but that was insane.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and told myself to breathe.
One breath. Two.
You’re free, Tate
