The Safehouse
The line clicked, severing the connection entirely, leaving only the oppressive, rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers to fill the sudden, suffocating silence of the SUV. I didn't take the exit ramp. I watched the brightly lit green sign for the turnaround blur past my passenger window, vanishing into the torrential downpour. My foot pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the heavy engine roaring as I drove past my only lifeline and headed straight into the jagged, lightless peaks of the White Mountains. Helena was right. Julian stepping into the barrel of that gun wasn't the action of a monster. It was the absolute, tragic surrender of a man who knew he couldn't leave me unless I pulled the trigger myself. The dashboard clock glowed a harsh, sterile green: 3:14 AM. The paved
- Writer
