Page 93 of From West, With Regret

“Did we lose him?” London asks, turning in her seat to look behind her while I glance in the rearview.

“I think so,” I breathe out.

London slowly turns back in her seat and grips the leather edge beside her legs. I reach out and squeeze her thigh again. “Hey,” I urge her.

She doesn’t answer. She lifts her hand and fingers the Big Ben charm again, vacantly staring at the dash in front of her.

“Hey, Dimples,” I repeat, this time catching her attention. “We’re safe.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and she inhales an unsteady breath. “Okay.” Her eyebrows slant into concern. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know.”

I drive us down a private road for what feels like several miles before coming out to a main road. There are farmhouses and what looks like a small, abandoned town in the distance. Rolling hills covered in trees for miles.

Once I reach the end of the private road, I type in the address to my house in Brooklyn. I immediately take a right, but when I recognize the sign for the gas station at the next intersection, the air is sucked from my lungs.

Oh, shit. I recognize this place.

How the fuck did we end up here?

Giving London the side-eye, I watch for her reaction. She’s still anxiously fingering my necklace, her glassy eyes frantically looking through the windshield and passenger window. She examines every building and landmark we pass, and the longer we stay here, the harder the pull is on me.

The pull to get the fuck out of here and away from this place. I haven’t been here since I was fifteen years old.

I press my foot into the gas pedal, knowing what we need to pass to get to the highway.

We leave the center of the town behind, and I find myself looking in the rearview more times than I should, just to make sure I really did lose the asshole who was following us.

“Wait, stop,” London says beside me. Her eyes roam across the countless trees, and she sits forward.

I snap my head to the right. “What?”

“I’ve been here before,” she breathes. Her seatbelt strains against her shoulder as she leans forward. “I’ve been here before.”

“London.” My stomach swims with nausea.

Her fingers spin the charm, and she presses her hand to the dash. “I’ve been here, West. I recognize these houses. I know it.”

I drive us past the houses I’ve been to a million times. The yards I used to play in. The woods London and I used to chase each other through.

Panic settles in. Fear makes a home in my bones.

Is she finally remembering?

My mind screams at me not to stop the car. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a train track, watching it barrel toward me. It’s blaring its horn, screaming at me to move, but I don’t.

I don’t know what to do.

I press on the gas a little harder, hoping I can drive straight past the house and get us out of here.

“Stop the car, West,” she cries, digging her nails into the dashboard.

“London. We’re almost to the highway.”

“No.” She shifts to clutch the door. She follows every single building and tree, watching as they pass us by. “We need to stop.”

“We can’t.”

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