The Darkest Part (Living Heartwood #1)(23)

She pulls one leg onto the bench seat, wraps her arms around it. Stares ahead. “No.” I wait patiently—not so much—for her to continue.

When she doesn’t, “Why?”

“I’m pretty sure my mom’s pissed, maybe even put a call into my doctor, and probably alerting the media as we drive that I’m a psycho on the loose who needs to be brought in by any means necessary.”

“What?” If I didn’t know better, all kinds of bad would be flashing through my mind: Sam’s been certified, I’ve been helping an escaped mental patient, my ass behind bars. But I do know better. And when I look at her—her pale face, a worry line between her brows, her lost expression—I have to admit that I have no idea what she’s been through since she lost Tyler. She looks more than drained. She looks on edge.

The compulsion to fix it surges through me.

“I’m exaggerating,” she says on a sigh. “Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t tell my parents where I was going because I don’t feel like dealing with any more guilt. I’ve put them through enough. And if I had to fight my way through this too . . . I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I just couldn’t.”

My aggravation with her and the situation dissipates a fraction. I know what it’s like to run—to need to run. “You’re nineteen. They can’t really tell you what to do.”

“I know.”

“No,” I say, turning into a Wendy’s parking lot. “You apparently don’t.” I park and then turn my body so that I can focus just on her. “You don’t want the guilt of putting them through anything, but you’re missing the fact that you’ve been through hell. Anything they’re trying to do is their coping mechanism.” I rub my jaw. “Parents never stop being parents. They have to try and fix shit for you, or else they feel useless.” This just isn’t true of mine.

She looks at me, her knee still clasped by her arms, her dark curtain of hair draping her leg. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, call your mom.” I nod toward the iPhone peeking out the pocket of her pack. “If you’re confident when you say it, she’ll probably be relieved that you’ve taken it upon yourself to fix whatever’s broken.”

Her brow furrows, and her eyes pin me with a look I can’t decipher. But then she grabs her phone and scrolls through. She exhales. “Five missed calls from her already.”

“Just call.”

After she presses the screen, she holds the phone to her ear, her other hand gripped tightly around her pack’s strap. “Mom . . . yeah, I’m fine.” She glares at me before looking out the passenger side window. “I’m with Holden.” She pauses, and the muffled sound of her mother’s voice pulses from the phone. “Savings.” Another beat. “No . . . you don’t have to put money in my account. I have enough . . . yes.” Her head whips around, her eyes large and round. “Dr. Hartman said that, really? Yeah. It was my idea . . . I think it will be good for me, too.”

A long pause, and Sam bows her head. “I love you, too. I’ll text when I reach my first stop.” She punches the screen. “Well, shit.”

I give her a lopsided grin and raise my brows. “Map?”

She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, then moistens it with her tongue. I look away.

“You really think I’ll get into that much trouble on my own?” she asks.

I bark a laugh. “I have no doubt.”

I don’t turn to see the death glare I’m sure she’s giving me. Instead, I fiddle with the skull keychain hanging from the ignition. The one Tyler sent me for my last birthday that matches my shifter knob that he also gave me. Waiting for her verdict.

Zipper gliding open, rustling, and then, “All right. Here.” She unfolds a map. Right away I see the highlighted route, and can figure out some of the stops. Tyler was born with wanderlust—that’s what our mom called it—and it was a shame that our parents were rooted to the island. A thrill spikes my blood at the thought of getting to do this for him.

Sam lays the map down between us on the seat. “First stop is Talladega, Alabama.” She quirks her lips as she consults Tyler’s hand written notes along the margin. “Because of one of his favorite movies, Talladega Nights.”

I laugh. “This is not going to be your average road trip.” I look over and watch as a bright smile overtakes her face.

“No, Tyler was anything but average.”

She’s happy, I can tell, but a hint of sadness laces her voice. I feel the urge to reach out and take her hand. I curl mine into a fist. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

I zip through the Wendy’s drive through, stocking up on greasy road trip food before we begin our five and a half hour drive to Talladega.



The one thing that sucks about driving through Georgia is the lack of good stations. Some country song is playing now, and thank God it’s starting to break up, becoming mostly static. I’ve let Sam have control over the stations so far, but country is my limit.

I nod to the floorboard. “I have a stash of CDs under the seat. Pick something good.”

“Great. I was about to just turn it off.” She laughs. “But CDs? Man, you’re old, dude.”