Page 127 of Hounded

I glanced back at where he stood in the hall looking awfully sorry for himself.

He’d told me why he took the drugs. That night at the lookout when he was fully himself for the first time ever. Then he’d apologized for being everything I didn’t like. For making me sad.

“You aren’t the reason I’m sad, Indy,” I said.

He cocked his head. This Indy didn’t remember that, didn’t know what I meant, but I needed to say it anyway.

“I’m sad because you choose this shit,” I stabbed a finger at the toilet, “instead of us. Instead of me. That’s what makes me sad. Sometimes I think it might kill me.” My voice almost broke, damn near cracked, and I clenched my fists as though they could hold onto my composure.

“You can’t die from sadness,” Indy said softly, repeating what he’d told me about his suicide. Accidental overdose.

I remembered what I’d said then, too.

Sometimes people die to make it stop.

I’d told Sully I didn’t always see the point in living. Death looked like peace to me. It meant release from Moira’s contract, from the cycle of love and loss, from brutally pervasive sadness.

Maybe that was why I was so inclined to lie down and surrender because I would have gladly died to make it all stop. Maybe I was as mad at Indy for abandoning me as I was that I couldn’t be the one to go instead.

“Get in the truck,” I said.

Indy’s brow furrowed. The concern was at odds with the giddy high that curved his lips and the glisten of tears in his eyes.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Not Nevada. Not Ohio.

“Somewhere else,” I replied.

He didn’t move, so I exited the bathroom and grabbed his arm to tug him toward the trailer door.

He stumbled after me, nearly tripping in his clunky shoes. “Loren, you’re hurt…”

Reaching the door, I flung it wide and held it. Indy stopped on the threshold, hesitating until I thrust him into the blinding sunshine. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

45

Loren

Three hours passed inexcruciating silence. Indy huddled against the truck’s passenger door, balled up and sniffling while I took the highway out of Ohio headed toward New York, planning a detour on the way.

If Indy noticed we were backtracking, he didn’t ask why. I snuck glimpses of his face in the window’s reflection. His freckled cheeks were streaked with tears, and his hands fisted in the blanket he’d wrapped around himself despite the afternoon sun making the cab uncomfortably hot.

Before we left Ohio, I threw on clean clothes to cover the wounds slowly stitching themselves closed. My hair was caked with blood, so I tied it back in a low ponytail and hoped the dark color blended into my ebony locks.

The needle on the gas gauge was tipping toward empty when I turned off the interstate. I’d found the campgrounds by chance. A billboard on the side of the highway advertised it as family-friendly with amenities like minigolf, an arcade, and two swimming pools. It seemed wholesome. Safe. A suitable place to stash the love of mylife while I carried on to New York alone.

Indy stayed in the truck while I parked and went to the front office to pay for one night. Only one night. We’d stopped just past Pittsburgh, a couple hundred miles from our close call in Ohio, and six hours from Brooklyn. With any luck, I would be back early tomorrow with a ward of my own, no longer a liability, and able to take Indy wherever he wanted to go.

When I climbed back into the truck cab, Indy was sniffling again. He rubbed his chapped cheeks on his fleece blanket while dodging my attention.

I put the truck in gear and steered toward the campsite we’d been assigned. Backing the Airstream into position took multiple attempts. Maneuvering the thirty-four-foot behemoth came with a steep learning curve.

On my third effort, I got the trailer situated and killed the engine. My sore muscles throbbed in protest as I exited the truck, and I fought a limp as I walked around to Indy’s door. When I opened it, he looked at me at last. His golden eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was running. He snuffled a wet breath.

“Are you taking me back to rehab?” he asked.

I hadn’t even considered that.

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