Sarah sat three blocks from Rebecca’s house, trying to decide if this was the worst idea she’d ever had.
Sunday morning. Early light filtered through the Jeep’s cracked windshield. Sarah had driven eight miles north into the tired edges of town — where chain-link fences leaned inward, and lawns were nothing but dry earth patched with stubborn weeds. Rusted cars sat on cinder blocks, their windows clouded with dust. The air smelled faintly of burnt oil and wet asphalt from the storm the night before.
Rebecca Pryor’s neighborhood looked like a place that had stopped pretending years ago. One-story homes sagged under the weight of their own roofs, paint peeling in flakes that clung to the siding like dead skin. Plastic pink flamingos leaned at odd angles in front yards gone to dirt. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked behind a wooden fence that rattled with every thud of its paws.
The Jeep ticked as it cooled, the sound sharp in the morning stillness.
Rebecca. High school friend who’d stayed in touch. Coffee every few months at the diner on Fourth Street, conversations that went deeper than either of them planned. Texts about nothing — how’s work, how’s Mark, saw this reminded me of you — and sometimes about everything. Someone safe.
Someone who wouldn’t be part of this.
But Sarah needed food. A shower. A few hours where she wasn’t alone with Mark’s ghost and a rifle that still felt like a stranger in her hands.
She left Ghost under the Jeep’s passenger seat, wrapped in Miguel’s old blue blanket that smelled of motor oil and dust. Shouldered Mark’s bag — the pistol, the cigarettes, the notebook with four names. Then walked.
Rebecca’s house squatted behind a bent chain-link fence. Paint the color of old teeth peeled in strips down the siding. A plastic planter shaped like a boot sat by the steps, filled with cigarette butts instead of flowers. Sarah knocked. The hollow-core door thumped under her knuckles.
It opened. Rebecca stood there in sweatpants and a stretched-out T-shirt, hair half pulled back. Her mouth opened, then closed.
“Sarah.” She stepped aside. “Oh my God. Are you okay? I heard about Mark. I’m so, so sorry. Come in. Please.”
Inside, the house smelled like old coffee and mildew. The carpet was thin in the hallway, worn through in patches where plywood showed. The living room and kitchen shared the same cramped space — a couch sagging in the middle, a crooked TV on a particleboard stand, an ashtray full of crushed filters on the table.
Rebecca closed the door and twisted the deadbolt. Her hands fidgeted with the lock longer than they needed to. When she turned, her smile looked stretched too tight.
“You look exhausted,” she said. “When did you last eat?”
“Friday, I think.”
“Jesus. Sit. I’ll make something.”
Rebecca turned toward the kitchen, but after a few steps, she hesitated. Her hand brushed her pocket, where her phone pressed against the fabric. “Actually — hang on a sec, I just need to return a call.”
She slipped into the next room, leaving Sarah alone. Muffled words drifted from the hallway — a voice low, quick, indistinct. Then silence.
Sarah let her eyes wander. The place was small, cluttered, lived-in. The air held the damp, metallic scent of rust and old pipes. The refrigerator stood against the far wall, its surface crowded with magnets and faded children’s drawings. One picture showed a woman and a girl holding hands beneath a crooked yellow sun. Next to it, a red utility shutoff notice curled at the corners, its paper stiff with humidity.
Rebecca returned a moment later and moved straight to the stove, pulling a pan from under the counter. Cabinet doors banged, pans clattered, and a burner clicked to life. The smell of frying butter and eggs began to fill the air, normal and wrong all at once.
Rebecca set a mug of coffee in front of Sarah. Her movements were precise, almost rehearsed. “Milk or sugar?”
“Black’s fine.”
They sat at the tiny dining table between the kitchen and living room. Rebecca tried to keep the conversation light, her voice brittle. “You still doing that competition stuff — with the targets?”
Sarah shrugged. “Not lately. Haven’t had time.”
Rebecca nodded, eyes down. “You still at the mill?”
“Laid off in January.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
Sarah gave a small, tight smile. “Yeah. Guess a lot’s changed.”
Rebecca’s gaze flicked to Sarah’s face, then away again. “You still talk to your dad?”
“Haven’t talked to him.”
“You two are the same. Stubborn.”
Sarah’s lips pulled into a faint sneer before she masked it with a sip of coffee. The frying pan hissed between them.
Rebecca cleared her throat. “You want toast with that?”
Sarah didn’t answer right away. She just stared at the tabletop until Rebecca slid a plate of eggs toward her.
Sarah ate in small, mechanical bites. When she finished, she leaned back, reached into Mark’s bag, and pulled out a cigarette. The rasp of the lighter filled the space. Smoke curled between them, cutting through the smell of eggs and grease.
Rebecca watched her. Said nothing.
Sarah exhaled, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Miguel called us Thursday night. Said men were outside his place. Mark went to talk to them — he always thought he could talk people down. But they shot him. Twice. Right in front of me.”
Rebecca’s fingers tightened around her mug.
“I barely got away,” Sarah said. “Crashed through their trucks. Spent the last three days hiding. I don’t even know who they were.”
Rebecca’s eyes welled. She shook her head. “Sarah... I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. If I had known—”
Her words trailed off. Silence settled again, heavy as wet cloth. The cigarette burned low between Sarah’s fingers, the smoke rising in slow gray ribbons.
Sarah stubbed it out in the ashtray. Her voice was dull. “Mind if I grab a shower?”
Rebecca blinked, startled. “What? Oh — of course. Second door down the hall.”
Sarah nodded, stood, and took Mark’s bag with her. The bathroom door shut behind her. Water began to run, the pipes groaning through the walls.
Rebecca sat alone at the table. She stared at the smoke curling from the ashtray, at the ring Sarah’s mug had left. Then she reached for her phone.
She reopened the post. The one she’d seen an hour ago, the one that made her pick up the phone before Sarah even sat down. The militia’s page. Sarah’s photo beside Miguel’s. The bounty text against the white background: $5,000 each. Wanted for questioning.
She scrolled through the comments. Someone had already tagged Brett Kowalski. She chewed her thumbnail until it bled.
From the bathroom came the sound of water running steady, oblivious. Rebecca whispered to no one, “What did I do?”
She set the phone down but didn’t look away. The shower kept running.
A minute passed. Then another.
The sound of the shower stopped. Sarah dressed quickly in Mark’s spare clothes from the bag — jeans that hung loose on her hips, a flannel shirt that still smelled faintly of his detergent. She came out of the bathroom carrying the clean smell of soap and warm water, skin flushed from the heat.
Rebecca was still at the table, phone gone, face pale. Her knee bounced under the table. She tried to smile but couldn’t meet Sarah’s eyes.
The sound outside: gravel crushing under tires.
Sarah turned toward the window. Through the thin curtains: a black Tacoma, front end caved in, bumper twisted. Brett Kowalski stepped out.
What the fuck.
The image didn’t make sense — Brett, here, in Rebecca’s driveway, the truck from the woods, the ruined front end. Her chest went hollow.
“Hide — please, just hide. I’m sorry.”
Sarah’s body moved before her thoughts did. Her eyes swept the small house — bedroom too exposed, closet no back exit, bathroom one way in. The kitchen. Cabinet under the sink. Small space, cover, limited entry.
She dropped to her knees and yanked open the cabinet doors. Shoved aside bottles of cleaner, containers crusted with something sticky that reeked of ammonia. Pipes, rags, darkness — barely enough room. No time to think. She folded herself inside and pulled the doors shut.
A fist pounded on the door. Once. Twice.
Rebecca froze, eyes wide.
The pounding came again, harder.
Rebecca moved toward the door on unsteady legs. Her hand trembled on the deadbolt. She twisted it. The door flew inward before she could pull it open, Brett’s palm slamming it wide.
“Where is she?” His voice was flat, cold. Eyes already scanning the room — couch, table, hallway.
“She’s not here.” Rebecca’s voice cracked. “She — she left. Just a bit ago.”
He pushed past her into the living room, boots heavy on the thin carpet. His eyes went to the corners, doorways, windows. Then he moved down the hallway without another word.
The first door — bedroom. She heard it bang open from inside the cabinet. The sound of something being overturned. Closet doors sliding. Bedframe scraping across floor.
Sarah crouched in the dark under the sink, knees pulled tight against her chest, pistol gripped in both hands. The wood was swollen from years of leaks. It smelled like mildew and rust and old chemicals. Light leaked between the cabinet doors in thin slivers, cutting across her forearms.
She could hear everything.
Brett’s boots in the bedroom. Something heavy hitting the floor. Then the bathroom — shower curtain rings scraping metal, the medicine cabinet opening with a squeak.
Her breathing was too loud — she knew he could hear it. The cabinet felt smaller with each passing second. Pipes pressed against her spine. A bottle of bleach dug into her hip. The particleboard beneath her knees was soft and damp.
The pistol trembled in her hands. She tried to steady it, aim it toward the thin gap in the doors, but her wrists were locked at an awkward angle. If he opened these doors she’d have maybe a second to bring the muzzle up, fire center mass in a space barely three feet wide—
The boots entered the kitchen.
Through the crack she could see them now. Steel-toed. Scuffed leather. Dried mud in the treads. They stopped an arm’s length from the cabinet. Turned slowly, surveying.
Sarah held her breath. Tried to make herself smaller. A drop of water fell from the pipe above her, landed cold on her shoulder. She barely stopped herself from flinching.
The boots walked away. Back down the hall. Heavy steps. Angry.
Brett returned to the living room. Rebecca had backed against the wall.
“Why didn’t you keep her here?” His voice rose. “You just let your payday walk the fuck right out?”
“I tried— I swear—”
He closed the distance in two strides. His hand shot out, caught her throat, pinned her against the wall beside the refrigerator. Her breath snagged against his grip. Her hands flew to his wrist.
“She was here,” Brett said, his face inches from hers. “I know she was here.”
Rebecca tried to shake her head. His grip tightened.
Brett pulled a combat knife from the sheath at his belt. The blade caught the overhead light — four inches, black handle, serrated near the hilt. He brought the tip to her left cheek, just below her eye. Pressed enough that the point dimpled skin.
“Last chance,” he said quietly.
Rebecca turned her face away from the blade, voice breaking into a sob. “She left! She suspected something was up and she fled before I could convince her to stay! I promise to God, I’m telling you the truth!”
Brett held her there. Studied her face. The knife point stayed against her cheek, pressing deeper. His breathing was slow and measured. Rebecca’s came in shallow gasps.
Then he shoved her aside. She stumbled, caught herself against the counter. A thin line of blood welled on her cheek where the blade had cut through.
Brett didn’t move. His lip curled back off his teeth, then dropped. He wiped the blade on his jeans and sheathed it. Then he crossed to the door and went out. Slow. Deliberate. The engine roared. Tires spun, kicking gravel against the side of the house. Then he tore away down the street.
Rebecca stood frozen, hand pressed to her bleeding cheek. She listened. Waited. The sound faded completely.
She went to the kitchen, knelt in front of the cabinet. Reached for the doors. Pulled them open.
Staring back at her: a little, angry frog with a gun pointed at her forehead.
For a second, neither moved.
Then Sarah lowered the pistol. Slowly unfolded herself from the cabinet, joints protesting. The borrowed shirt was soaked with sweat and something wet from the pipes. She straightened, legs barely holding her.
Rebecca stood in the kitchen doorway. Mascara streaked down her face in black tracks. Her hands trembled at her sides. Blood slid from the cut below her eye, toward her jaw.
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca whispered. “The militia — they posted a bounty. Five thousand dollars. I thought they just wanted to talk to you, I swear. I didn’t know what really happened. Rent’s due and I just — I’m so sorry.”
Sarah looked at her. At the blood. At the trembling. At the guilt etched into every line of her face.
A long pause.
“Thank you for breakfast,” Sarah said.
She picked up Mark’s bag and walked out.
Outside, the air smelled of hot asphalt and exhaust. Ghost waited where she’d left it under the Jeep’s seat, still wrapped in the oil-and-dust-scented blanket.
She slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove north.
The houses blurred past — peeling paint, dead yards, broken fences — until there were no more houses at all, only the low hum of the highway and the weight of the sun on her hands.