Page 66 of You Can Run

I gave those people her name.

He said it into the dark, barely above a breath. His own voice came back to him like something foreign. He'd spent days calling it a tactical decision, a moment of weakness, a thing done in anger that he hadn't fully meant. But sitting with it now, in the rot and the silence, he couldn't hold the story together anymore. He'd wanted her found. He'd wanted the world to crash down on her so he could be the one standing in the wreckage, the only thing left she could reach for. He'd burned her life down because he couldn't stand being the man she settled for.

The sirens were closer. Blue-red light was skating across the corrugated metal of the shed's exterior, fractured and rhythmic, and Trent stood in it and felt very little. The truck keys were already in his hand. He didn't remember picking them up.

If he stayed, he'd be arrested before sunrise. He'd be walked out of a precinct in front of people who'd worked beside him, stripped of the badge in stages—the formal hearing, the union reps, the investigators with their careful voices and their manilafolders full of his worst decisions. And somewhere out there, or in a ditch, or in Dante's arms, Jessica would be living a life that had no room for him in any version.

He looked up at the loft one last time.

He'd wanted to matter to her. That was the thing under all of it—the simple human need to be the person someone turned toward. He'd convinced himself love could be built from proximity if you were patient enough. But you can't love someone into choosing you. He understood that now, at the end of it, in a shed in the middle of a marsh with the law converging on the shell-grit road outside.

He got into the cab. The smell of his own sweat was sharp in the closed space. He didn't look at the loft. He turned the key and the engine roared to life, a sound big enough to swallow the night whole, and he thought:good.

Through the windshield, the first patrol car was already turning onto the path, its lights strobing white and blue across the marsh grass. Trent reached out and flipped his own switches—the dash lights, the grill lights, and the red and blue bars flared to life in the dark.

He put the truck in drive and floored it.

The tires shrieked on the shells. He saw the officers scrambling, hands going to holsters, faces confused at the sight of police lights coming straight at them. He veered onto the main road and the sirens rose behind him into something unified and total, and he drove with his foot flat to the floor and the windows down, the warm marsh air filling the cab.

He wasn't thinking about Jessica anymore. He wasn't thinking about Dante or badges or what came next. He was just driving, for the first time in years, toward something that was entirely his own.

The roar of Trent’s engine came up through the floorboards and into Jessica's palms, her knees, the base of her spine. She pressed herself flat and squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the sound of impact —metal on metal, or worse.

It didn't come. There was just the shriek of tires and the blue-red light strobing through the gaps in the roof, and then the sirens moving. Pulling away. Chasing him out onto the main road and into the dark beyond.

She lay still and listened to them fade. One mile, then more. The lights died. Slowly, the sounds of the marsh filled the silence back in.

Dante was at the edge of the loft, watching the space below, the gun still in his hand. He didn't move until the last siren had thinned to nothing. Then he lowered it slowly.

Trent was gone. He’d taken the truck and the lights and the heat of the whole situation and driven it somewhere else, away from her, and her first feeling—the one that arrived before thought—was that she could breathe again. She hated herself a little for it. Not enough to make it go away though.

She looked down at the empty floor below. The burlap sacks were still there, dented where he'd been sitting. She thought about the way he'd looked in the truck on the drive here—not the anger she'd expected, but something collapsed, like a man already in the process of disappearing. She thought about the months of mornings in his kitchen, the way he'd watched her over his coffee like she was something he was afraid of losing, and how she'd always felt the weight of that watching without being able to give him anything back. She'd stayed because shewas tired and scared and he was solid and familiar and none of those things had ever been love.

She'd known that. She'd known it and stayed anyway, and some part of what Trent had become was built on the foundation of her staying.

She climbed down the ladder. Her legs held, which surprised her a little. She stood in the center of the shed and looked at the oil-dark patch of dirt where the truck had been idling ten minutes ago, and she waited to feel something more complicated than what she felt. It didn't come. Just the relief, and the guilt riding its coattails, and underneath both of them the older, heavier thing she'd been carrying since Galveston—the understanding that the real danger hadn't ended at the docks. It had only changed shape.

She looked up at Dante.

“So what do we do now?”

The pain in Trent's nose had stopped somewhere around the first turn. He didn't question it. His hands were steady on the wheel and his mind was running clean and fast in a way it hadn't in years, and he wasn't going to examine any of it too closely.

In the mirror, he counted four sets of headlights. Then five. They were holding their distance —waiting for air support, waiting for him to make a mistake. He knew the playbook. He'd run versions of it himself.

He shifted his grip and pressed the accelerator down another inch.

He wasn't thinking about the gambling debts. Or the Sicaria, or the way he'd folded in his own kitchen when she looked athim. Even Jessica had gone quiet in his head sometime in the last two miles.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was ahead of something. He'd spent years trying to rig every room he walked into, angling for leverage, looking for the exit before he'd even found his seat. There were no angles here. No story to manage, no version of events to control.

He swerved onto 61st and felt the truck lean hard into the turn, tires screaming, suspension working against the weight of the thing. A sedan ahead of him veered onto the sidewalk. He watched it happen without feeling much about it. He was already past.

The speedometer climbed past ninety. Then ninety-five.

He tilted the rearview mirror to look at his own eyes. Bloodshot and wide. He looked like a man he would have pulled over on a Tuesday and felt nothing for.

He knew the island. Causeway meant spike strips before the bridge. Seawall meant he'd eventually run out of road. Neither of those facts changed anything. The destination had never been the point.