Every Single Secret(89)

The next instant, I’m thunking up onto the median too, slowing between the clipped crepe myrtles, then grinding to a stop. Cars whiz past me and I catch my breath, scanning the southbound lanes. Where did Heath go? And where’s Luca? A few seconds pass, and I spot them at last, Luca scrambling up the embankment toward the woods. Heath sprinting across the road in pursuit.

And then what happens, happens so quickly, I almost can’t believe it.

A maroon SUV appears out of the dark, slams into Heath, flips him up and over the hood. I watch him slide onto the top of the SUV, then tumble to the asphalt, and a pale-yellow Cadillac runs over him. Front and back wheels. When the Cadillac is past, I can see Heath’s body, a shapeless, motionless lump on the highway. He looks like a stray dog, I think. Roadkill.

Do I scream? I don’t even know; I don’t hear a thing, not even the sound of my own voice. I only see Heath, motionless on the pavement.

The SUV and Cadillac screech to a stop, and both drivers jump out. I don’t move because I can’t. A wave of nausea, so intense I’m paralyzed, is slicing through me. I grit my teeth so hard I can feel my temples pulse, and I pray for the sensation to pass. It doesn’t. I lean over and vomit onto the passenger’s-side floor mat.

When I look up again, I see Luca’s made it all the way up to the top of the embankment. He stands for a minute, surveying the situation below. Back on the road, one of the motorists, the guy from the SUV, is already on his phone. The Cadillac guy is pacing up and down in front of him and yelling. Nobody has approached Heath, not yet. I wonder if it’s because it’s obvious that he’s dead. In an instant, I see Luca turn and disappear into the woods.

I grip the steering wheel and try to remember how to breathe. The police will be here soon. They’ll figure out that the Mercedes abandoned at the pump is Dr. Cerny’s. They’ll find the iPad inside—the files and Heath’s confession. They may not know how I fit into the equation, but before long, they’ll be looking for me, even if I wasn’t the one who hit him.

Now more cars are slowing and stopping, their headlights illuminating the road. Another guy’s out and on his phone. An older woman who stopped has got her arm around the Cadillac guy, leading him toward the median. There’s no sign of Luca. I shift into reverse, my hand trembling, then ease onto the gas.

I roll off the median and go farther up the road where I can hang a U-turn. I drive slowly past Heath and the clot of stopped cars. Nobody even glances my way.

I ease up to sixty miles an hour. Still nothing happens. No police lights, nothing. I drive and drive and drive, slow and steady down the highway, keeping the truck at an even sixty. All the while, a constant, low humming vibrates through my brain.

I don’t know how long it takes—maybe thirty, forty-five minutes—before I realize it’s actually me, humming a tune. Sinatra, if you can believe it. Goddamn Sinatra.

And then I’m sobbing. Loud, inhuman wails and tears pour out of me, and I don’t try and stop them. I am due. Past due. I drive and cry. Drive and cry. For the little girl in an apartment alone. On top of a bunk bed at night, hungry. Sitting in a psychologist’s smoky office, terrified, telling a partial truth that will slither and encircle and squeeze the life out of her for years to come. I cry for the woman who, even for a split second, actually believed she could stay with a murderer. That she could love him.

But I am alive. I’m alive and driving away from him. I was not willing to dig up a grave and climb in with the monster inside.

I switch on the radio, and the tears stop. Strangely, I don’t feel the urge to count anything or snap a band on my wrist. I’m wrung out, my body quivering like a dog in a thunderstorm, but just driving seems like enough for me right now. I have no idea where I should go. South, for now, I guess. Back roads all the way, until I hit I-20.

Then I’ll go west. I don’t have a phone, no money or identification. But west has a good sound to it. I remember having heard somewhere that getting a forged driver’s license, passport, birth certificate is possible—even though I don’t have the slightest clue how to go about it. I think I still have Jessica Kyung’s business card somewhere on me. She might be willing to help me. I hope so. She’s the only option I have right now.

A cursory inventory of the truck reveals Luca’s stocked it with food, bottles of water, and a wad of bills that looks like it could last me several weeks. And something else. The truck’s license plate is tucked in the sun visor. Luca must’ve taken it off before he caught up with Heath and me at the gas station. The next time I have to stop, I’ll screw it back on. I’ll keep to the side roads. Someone could have witnessed the green truck that was bearing down on Heath Beck right before he was hit. It’s impossible to know.

The only thing I am sure of is that I want to live. So I will run.

It’s the one thing I know how to do.



Eight Months Later

Twilight in the Canadian summer is a lovely time. Enchanting, some might call it. People who use words like that. People who believe in magic.

The sun kisses the southwestern side of Bowen Island good night, then disappears into Tunstall Bay, and in an instant, you can see the container-ship lights wink against the purple dark. It’s quite a thing. As often as I can, I watch the whole show from the rickety Adirondack chair on the hilltop deck of the house I look after. I’m usually sipping a glass of whatever I’ve chosen from the local wine shop down near the harbor. I’m not picky—red, white, rosé—as long as it smooths over the rough edges. My current brand of magic.