Page 52 of Dual
I zip the suitcase closed with finality and drag it down the stairs.
The house is quiet and empty. I stand in the entrance hall for a moment, letting in the silence. It feels like a physical thing, this emptiness. Like a weight pressing on my chest until I can't breathe.
"Get it together," I hiss, digging my nails into my palm until the sting brings me back. "You knew this was temporary. You always knew."
I force myself to move, just like I always forced myself to move, back in the old days. I did a thousand things I couldn't stomach every day.
What's one more?
I load the car quickly and efficiently as always. The trunk slams shut with such decisiveness that I flinch.
I slide into the driver's seat, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine rumbles to life.
I can't afford to look back. One glance and I might break, might turn around and crawl back into bed even knowing it would get us both killed. Donny's face flashes in front of my eyes.
Never. I'll never let them hurt him because of me.
The wheels screech as I pull out of the garage and down the driveway. The suburbs of Dallas slip by—perfect houses with perfect lawns, all those normal people living their normal lives, oblivious to the monsters that walk among them. That I used to help. That are now hunting me.
I'll head northwest, through Oklahoma. Change cars in Tulsa. Change identities in Denver. Keep moving until I'm sure I've lost any trail. Standard protocol for people like me who need to disappear.
The road narrows as I cut through one of the smaller neighborhoods, taking back routes to avoid main highways.
A glint in my rearview mirror catches my attention—a black sedan, two cars back.
Coincidence? Maybe.
I make a right turn onto an even smaller street.
The sedan follows.
Dammit.
I speed up slightly, testing. It matches my pace.
"Fuck."
Adrenaline floods my system, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. I'm being followed. I knew this could happen. Shit, I thought I'd have more time—but here we are.
How long had they been watching the house, waiting for sight of me?
I accelerate, making a sharp left onto a winding road flanked by trees. I know this area—there's a small bridge ahead over a creek that sometimes swells in the winter months if it storms. I mapped escape routes months ago.
The sedan speeds up, gaining on me. I check the rearview again. There are two men in the front seat, both wearing sunglasses despite the January gloom.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I slam the steering wheel.
A sudden impact jolts me forward—they've rammed my back bumper.
"You fuckers," I snarl, jamming the pedal to the floor.
The car lurches forward, but the sedan stays right with me, closing the distance. I can see the bridge approaching—a small concrete span over a steep culvert. The creek below is barely a trickle now, just enough water to darken the concrete.
Another jolt as they ram me again, harder this time. Myhead cracks into my side window as the car fishtails, tires screeching as I fight to regain control.
I need to make a decision—fast.
I spot my opportunity—a sharp left just before the bridge. At the very last second, I wrench the wheel, cutting across the oncoming lane. The sedan shoots past before slamming on its brakes, the driver clearly caught off guard.
