You have to protect yourself. Run away. RUN away.
"Stop it, Natalia. Goddamn, stop it," I mutter, pressing my fingers against my temples, as if that will somehow silence the voice in my head. But it's impossible. The words echo, bouncing off the walls of my mind, growing louder with every passing second. I push off the couch and start pacing, my movements frantic, restless. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating. I need to breathe. I need to think.
They're right, aren't they? I do have to protect myself. The thought tightens around my chest like a steel band. The irony of it slams into me all at once. I spent so much time blaming Brandon—calling him a liar, a criminal, a selfish bastard who only ever thought of himself. But now, standing here, in the same situation, I realize I'm doing the exact same thing.
A laugh bubbles up my throat, bitter and hollow. The sound makes my stomach churn, and I double over slightly, gripping my knees as I force air into my lungs. I feel sick. My skin prickles with cold sweat. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out everything except the crushing weight of what I've done.
I can't stay here. I need to move. The walls are closing in. My hands shake as I reach for the car keys, my fingers tightening around them like they're my only lifeline.
Before I can stop myself, I'm outside, inhaling the cool night air that does nothing to soothe the storm raging inside me. The car is right there, waiting. And in the backseat, wrapped in plastic, is Brandon's lifeless body.
A violent tremor runs through me. I have to force myself to move, to keep going, even as nausea surges up my throat. My fingers fumble over the keys, slipping once, twice, before I finally manage to shove them into the ignition. The engine roars to life, a sharp contrast to the dead silence of the night.
I don't know where I'm going. I don't have a plan. I just drive.
The city blurs past me, neon signs and streetlights melting into streaks of color as I grip the wheel with all the strength I have left. My hands are slick with sweat, my knuckles white. I glance at the rearview mirror, my gaze flickering between the empty road and the shadowy mass in the backseat. My stomach twists violently, but I swallow back the bile threatening to rise.
Focus. Think.
The river? The forest? I should know what to do. I've spent enough time around criminals, analyzing them, understanding their mistakes. And yet my mind is blank, every rational thought slipping through my fingers like sand. My breathing is too fast, too uneven. The panic is creeping in again, clawing at the edges of my sanity.
Then I see it—a car in my mirror. Not close, not aggressive, but there. Unmoving. Unrelenting. Following.
A chill snakes down my spine, and my grip on the steering wheel tightens. No. No, it's just coincidence. Just a regular car on a late-night drive. It's not following me. It can't be.
But the longer I watch, the more the panic sinks its claws into me. It isn't overtaking me. It isn't turning away. It's just there, like a shadow that refuses to disappear.
I make a sharp right turn, my tires screeching against the pavement. My heartbeat slams against my ribs as I glance in the mirror again. The car turns, too.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
My breaths come in quick, ragged bursts. My mind is screaming at me to think, to act, but all I can feel is the cold sweat trickling down my back and the suffocating weight of the bundle in the backseat. It feels heavier now, like my guilt is making it grow. My fingers are slick on the wheel, slipping as I take another turn. Then another. The streets are darker now, emptier. The city lights are nothing but a distant glow behind me.
But the car is still there.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs at the edges. I need to get out of here. I need somewhere to hide, somewhere to breathe. And then, through the fog of my panic, I see it—a warehouse, abandoned and crumbling, its structure barely standing against the pull of time.
Perfect.
I swerve into the lot, killing the headlights as I park in the deepest shadow I can find. My hands tremble violently as I kill the engine. The silence is deafening. I can barely hear past the blood rushing in my ears. My pulse is a frantic drumbeat against my skin.
I glance at the entrance. The other car has stopped just outside the lot. Its headlights pierce the darkness, twin beams cutting through the night like the unblinking eyes of something watching. Waiting.
I can't breathe.
My fingers fumble with the door handle, slick with sweat, my grip weak. My entire body is shaking now, my nerves frayed to their breaking point. My head pounds with the weight of what I've done, with the crushing, suffocating thought that I might never escape this. That maybe I was never meant to.
I close my eyes, forcing a deep, shaky breath into my lungs. I need to move. I need to move.
Before it's too late.