my chest aches like I’ve just lost Mom all over again. The banana I picked up at a gas station is lying on the passenger seat, half-eaten, and though it’s the only food I’ve had today, the thought of taking another bite makes me want to vomit.
I’m driving blindly again, heading nowhere. I must’ve been in shock for the first couple of hours because I can barely recall how I got here. I know I filled up the car somewhere, because the fuel gauge shows the tank is full, but I have only a vague recollection of walking into a dingy store and paying. The banana came from there, I’m sure—I grabbed it on autopilot—but I don’t remember eating it, though I must have.
I’m pretty sure they don’t sell half-eaten fruit, even at the dingiest of gas stations.
The road ahead of me slopes up and curves sharply, and I force myself to concentrate. The last thing I need is to drive off a cliff. As is, I feel like that’s more or less what I’m doing with every mile of distance I’m putting between myself and Nikolai.
I did the right thing, the smart thing.
I keep telling myself that, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t lessen the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake. It’s only been a few hours since I left, yet I miss him so acutely it’s as if we’ve been apart for months. When he was away on the business trip, I knew I’d see him again, knew we’d speak each evening, but there’s no such certainty now.
He may refuse to talk to me when I call him.
He may be so angry that I left he won’t want me to return.
Now that I’m out here, away from the compound, Alina’s revelations seem even more like the ramblings of an ill, drugged-out mind, and though I can’t dismiss them entirely, I shudder at the thought of confronting Nikolai and asking whether he did, in fact, kill his father.
What innocent man wouldn’t be insulted by that query?
What boyfriend wouldn’t be furious that his girlfriend believed such monstrous lies?
I should’ve stayed. Fuck, I should’ve stayed. Even if it felt risky at the time, I should’ve given Nikolai a fair hearing. The keys prove nothing. Alina could’ve had them all along; she could’ve even stolen them from Pavel. If Nikolai wanted to deprive me of my freedom, there are all kinds of other actions he could’ve taken—like telling the guards not to let me out.
And that’s the thing, I realize with a start. That’s why what seemed so rational when I was packing feels like such an awful error now. It’s because the moment I drove through the gate, I got proof that I could leave, that Nikolai didn’t plan to keep me there with some sinister intentions. I’d been too panicky to realize it at first, but the farther I drove, the deeper that knowledge settled, the consequences of my impulsive actions weighing on me more with every passing mile.
I should’ve turned back hours ago.
In fact, I should’ve done it the moment I cleared the gate.
I cast a frantic glance around me. Trees and cliffs everywhere. I’m deep in the mountains again, the road in front of me so narrow it’s barely two lanes. I can’t do a U-turn here; it would be suicide to try.
Clutching the wheel tighter, I keep driving—and finally, I see it.
A little extra space to the left of where the road curves.
I look in the mirror, then straight ahead and back.
Nothing. No cars. I’m all alone.
Braking hard, I make an illegal U-turn and head back.
I’m twenty minutes into my return trip and desperately trying to remember if I need to turn right or left at the upcoming intersection when a black pickup truck turns onto the road, coming toward me.
A chill ripples down my spine, the fine hair on the back of my neck rising.
It could be my paranoia working overtime again, but those tinted windows look familiar.
There’s no time to second-guess myself; in another thirty seconds, we’ll be passing next to each other. With a sharp tug on the wheel, I swing the car onto a small dirt road leading up the mountain to my right, and slam on the gas, ignoring the complaining whine from the Corolla’s ancient motor.
If it’s not them, they won’t follow me.
I’ll feel like an idiot, but better that than dead.
My heart thumps violently against my ribcage, each second marked by half a dozen beats as my gaze flits between