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Smoothing back the hair stuck to her forehead, I plant small kisses on her clammy skin. “I’ll fix this, I swear I’ll fix it.” I hear the babbling edge to my own voice, the panic forcing its way through the cracks, but I can’t seem to stop. “I’ll fix this.” The promise is useless, but I say it anyway. Apparently I can’t fix or help anything. I break and smooth over, that’s my specialty.

Taking Meg’s hand, I try to drag her away, already calculating the distance back to the barn, the state of our clothes, the roads we used, the routes we can take to avoid cameras when somehow, Meg finds the strength to remain exactly where she is.

“No.” Frowning, I turn back, my wide eyes dancing between hers.

“No? Meg, we have to get out of here.” I try to tug her again, but she shakes her head, her eyes steeling over. The movement is small, stubborn, and familiar. There she is. My Meg who doesn’t need anyone to speak for her. I should be relieved, proud even, but her timing is impeccable.

“Laura could still be here.” Following her eyeline, I peer at the darkened house over my shoulder, and my heart sinks. The cabin sits beyond the dirt and weeds, black windows staring back, its wooden frame sagging as if preparing to collapse in on itself. A thousand excuses, demands and threats fly to the end of my tongue. We’re exposed. Harrison may not be alone. Someone could have heard the shot. We have blood on us, but none of them makes it past my lips because Meg is right. Dammit, she’s right. Laura could still be inside.

Twisting her wrist free, Meg picks up the shovel and throws it at me. I catch it in my gloved hands, glaring at her like she’s grown another head.

“Bury him. I’m going to search the house.”

“Wait—” I hiss, attempting to sidestep her, but Meg is faster. She evades me as if we’re on the pitch, jerking out of reach as I grab for her waist. “Megan,” I growl, the frayed edges of my control slipping away entirely.

Ignoring me, she runs full speed toward the cabin. I take one step after her, then stop, violently torn between my instincts. Chase after her or do as I’m told. Follow the woman I love into whatever darkness Harrison left behind, or bury the evidence of the man she’s just killed. My grip tightens around the shovel, the wooden handle biting into my palms through the gloves. There is no right answer, so swallowing hard, I turn back to the pit.

Kicking the doe into the hole, I shovel dirt onto their corpses as quickly as I can. Every scrape of metal against stone slicing through the air makes me flinch, panic ever present in my throat. My shoulders burn, my lungs scrape, and sweat cools beneath my clothes despite the frigid night air, but I don’t stop until the earth starts to resemble something near to normal. Time is ticking by, and every painstaking minute Meg doesn’t appear, the more I’m tempted to say screw it and go after her.

Just then, her outline appears and my heart almost bursts free from my chest to fly over to her. Meg stumbles forward, numbly descending the cabin steps. Tossing the shovel aside, I run to her. She’s pale, her features expressionless as her arms wrap around her body. I’ve never seen her look so small. Luckily, she hangs on just long enough for me to be at arm's length before her legs give out and I catch her before she hits the floor.

“Laura isn’t here,” Meg mumbles, her voice cracking. That’s all I need to hear to know we’re done wasting time. Striding for the barn my Lexus is hiding in, I refuse to put down Meg’s shaking frame until I’m sliding her into the passenger seat.

Even then, neither of us speaks, barely allowing ourselves to breathe properly until the engine roars to life. Gravel spits behind the tires and the barn disappears into the rearview mirror, although there’s no relief. There’s only the road ahead, the dark closing in around us, and the unbearable realization that we’re driving away empty-handed.

I drive blind until a sign appears for a small service stop attached to an old gas station, half-hidden off a minor road. Usually I’d speed past the peeling paint, rusted metal and lights buzzing beneath a canopy that has seen better decades, but today it feels like a slice of salvation.

I turn the car too fast, nearly skidding burn marks into the aged concrete. The smell that follows is anything but subtle, but it doesn’t stop me from slamming on the brakes behind the aged building. The sudden jolt has nothing to do with the pounding of my heart, or how my hands are gripping the wheel in a white knuckled grip. Even with all of these miles between us and the buried body we left behind, the bile sits in my throat.

What I’d give to drag Meg into my lap and carry her out of this car. To go back to the motel and lose each other in the sweat-slickened glide of our bodies. To go back to yesterday before I made sure Meg will never truly be free of Harrison now. Her hands will never be clean of him, never be rid of the dirt, blood and gunpowder, no matter how much she tries to scrub them clean. Speaking of which, we’re both filthy, still in the clothes Thiago provided.

Inhaling, I catch the stench of death and regret, and I can’t take it for one more second. Shoving out of the car, I stagger a few steps before my knees buckle and I hit the ground.

Half crawling toward a line of grass, I gag and proceed to empty the contents of my stomach onto the earth. Acid burns, a humiliating sound I hope Meg doesn’t hear escaping me. My stomach clenches painfully, a slice of pain rolling up my back until I have nothing left. Dry heaving and gasping for air, a small, gentle hand lands between my shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, Everest.”

“No.” I spit into the grass, wiping my mouth with the back of my wrist before I force myself upright. The world sways, tilting beneath my feet, but I lock my knees out of sheer will. “Nothing’s ever going to be okay again.”

Meg doesn’t try to deny it. She simply leans into my chest, lightly wraps her arms around my middle and holds me. I crumple in a heartbeat, dragging her tighter, craving the stability she somehow provides. “How are you so calm?” Meg huffs a small, bitter laugh.

“Practice,” she shrugs against me, burying her face into my chest. I hate that answer, but I don’t comment on it. I brought her all the way out here so she’d never have to carry fear in her heart, so she could become the hero and be relieved of her guilt. Instead, I’ve doomed her to looking over her shoulder for a whole different reason.

Behind her, the parking lot is empty except for an old van parked beneath the farthest light and a stack of crates beside a shuttered window. Somewhere nearby, refrigeration units hum steadily while a moth batters itself against the fluorescent strip above the bathroom entrance. Smoothing my hands over Meg’s arms, I gently peel her back.

“We need to wash up.” Meg glances down at herself as if noticing her body for the first time. Her fingers flex against my waist, a slow stilted exhale leaving her. Despite wearing the gloves, there’s somehow dirt caked beneath her nails, a faint smear along the sleeve of my hoodie, and both of our knees are caked in mud. Nodding, her throat works around a response that doesn’t come.

Stopping by the trunk for our bags, Meg lets me guide her towards the bathroom, a small and painfully beige room, hosting nothing more than cracked tiles, a stained basin, a grimy toilet I’m not going within a mile of and a hand dryer that’s hanging off the wall. Under different circumstances, I would refuse to breathe in here, never mind lock us inside and set our bags down on the only patch of floor that doesn’t look damp.

For a few seconds, neither of us moves. We simply stand there beneath the harsh fluorescent light, looking at one another as if the dirt, blood and panic clinging to us might disappear if we ignore it for long enough.

“We need to get these off first,” I murmur, reaching for the hem of my hoodie she’s still wearing. Meg’s eyes flick to mine, wide and glassy, but she doesn’t argue. Her arms lift mechanically, allowing me to draw the material over her head with as much care as I can manage. My fingers graze her ribs, her waist and the delicate line of her spine, chasing small touches that shouldn’t even be on my mind.

Meg returns the favor without being asked, her fingers gliding over my abdomen as my top is raised, the ghost of her lips against my collarbone as the material is carefully lifted over my head. We peel the rest away piece by piece, muddy cargos, ruined socks, boots abandoned by the door, until we’re both standing in our underwear with our filthy clothes piled between us like evidence.

Only then do I turn on the faucet. The water sputters before running cold and clear, and I ease Meg’s hands underneath first. She watches numbly as the dirt loosens from her skin, twisting down the drain in murky ribbons. I clean her the best I can with the body wash from my bag, scrubbing her nails until there’s no visible evidence left. I can’t speak for what’s left underneath, but for now, it’s the best I can do. Meg copies my motions a moment later, taking my hands in hers, turning them palm up beneath the water and dragging her thumbs over each knuckle. A tremor runs through us both.

It’s me who breaks away first, refusing to take anything further from Meg tonight. She’s already singed a piece of her soul, already followed me into a warzone that I didn’t prepare her for. I’ve done enough. Whilst she’s brushing the dirt from her hair and piling it into a top bun, I brush my teeth, my bare torso prickling against the cold that I’m certain I’ll never be rid of now.