Page 203 of Romancing in Rot

BIG FAT LIARS

CLAIR

So, we may have fibbed.

A lot.

By the next evening, we are back in Chicago.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, Leon carried Poppy out of that mall while I stumbled beside him with blood drying on my skin and Russ dead behind us. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I thought getting out would be enough.

It wasn’t.

We made it five miles before Lyla pulled over to check the map, and everyone started talking around the promise we’d made Bryant.

No one said the obvious thing.

So, apparently, it had to be me.

“We’re not keeping our promise,” I said.

The whole group went quiet.

Joanie blinked at me. “I’m sorry. Did Clair Rains just become my moral compass?”

“No,” I said. “I’m saying we gave our word under duress to a man who fed people to people. That does not count.”

Trish pointed at me. “Legally, ethically, and medically sound.”

Lyla’s mouth twitched. “Medically?”

“I wanted to be included.”

Leon stood beside the hood of Max, one hand pressed to his ribs, blood still drying at his hairline. He looked at me for a long moment, then slowly nodded.

He tapped the map twice, pointed back toward the mall, and started writing.

Evidently, he had already been thinking the same thing. Because our group doesn’t take kindly to cruelty.

Shocking.

So we spent the day doing what survivors do best. We patched wounds. Counted bullets. Stole cars. Rigged speakers. Planned revenge.

And since the mall’s front entrance was chained, barricaded, and watched, we planned how to make ourselves a door.

Leon drives with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped tightly around mine. My body is one giant bruise. My throat aches from Rhea’s hands, my ribs throb with every bump in the road, and my mouth still tastes faintly like blood and someone else’s ear, so all in all, doing great.

The car lurches over a pothole hard enough to make the rusted frame groan, and I bite back a sound that wants to be a whimper. Leon’s eyes flick to me immediately, his jaw tightening as his thumb brushes once over my knuckles. His face is all hard angles in the dashboard glow, blood dried along his split lip and the edge of his beard, but his thumb brushes my knuckles like he needs proof I’m still here.

I squeeze back before he can spiral.

I’m here. I’m alive.

I love you.

The walkie wedged in the cupholder crackles between us, half buried under a sticky fast-food napkin and a handful of old pennies. Static spits through the speaker before Lyla’s voice cuts in, sharp and calm in a way that makes me both comforted and deeply concerned.

“Okay. Sound check. Is everybody armed and emotionally stable enough to commit vehicular spite?”