Blake's jaw hung open at the bottom of a face that looked like it had softened into a lumpy dough.

"It's in his trunk," she whispered. "Babe, you gotta go get our money before he comes back."

He pushed himself into a seated position on the bed. "You stashed the money in his trunk? And just left?"

"Shhhhhhh!" She covered his mouth with her palm, her eyes bulging with urgency. "When he gets to where he's going, he's gonna realize he lost his car keys. He'll probably call the airport. Or somebody else. You gotta get there before somebody comes for that car."

"Me?"

"I can't go back there. The cops saw me. By now probably every cop in a ten-mile radius has a description."

With his brain in a knot, he took a moment to compose himself. Then, testing her, he drew Rachel close. "Let's just leave it. Get out of here now while we have the chance."

"We can't. Not now. Not after all this."

It broke his heart. It's exactly what he predicted she'd say.

She leaned across the bed, reached into her purse, then produced the BMW key fob. "All you gotta do is walk into that garage, pop the trunk, and walk away with the bag. That's it."

"Easiest thing in the world," he murmured.

She ignored his ironic remark and deflected. "Once we get that money we'll disappear. Someplace where they'll never find us. Just you and me, Babe. Just the two of us." She nuzzled against him.

Blake clenched his eyes closed, his chest aching with crushing grief.

########

The sun had scarcely begun climbing over the horizon when Blake rolled out of bed. He couldn't sleep anyway. He was stiff, sore. Everything hurt. Throughout the night, deeply troubling thoughts plagued him. He played the past three months over and over again in his mind, digesting the bleaker truths about their relationship. There were signs along the way but he'd been distracted and naive. He acknowledged that he was less of a person than he was before he met her.

He steadied himself with a palm against the paneled wall before venturing to the shower to rinse the taste of dried blood from his mouth. He glanced toward the bed where Rachel slept like a baby without interruption from a troubled mind. Her back slowly rose and fell with each quiet breath.

On his way into the bathroom, the floor tipped and slid beneath his bare feet. He gripped the edge of the sink until his equilibrium was restored. He chose not to look in the mirror.

The chrome handles squeaked when he turned on the water in the shower. Once he accepted the fact that the water pressure from the showerhead had the same flow rate as an old man with an enlarged prostate, he stepped into the mint green plastic tub. As the warm water drizzled down his body he heard the toilet seat rise followed by Rachel's voice. "No worries, Babe. I'm not gonna flush."

Given the limited supply of hot water, he showered quickly. He stepped out of the tub surprised to find her at the mirror, adjusting the wig on her head. He watched, toweling his bruised body.

As she combed out the tangles, she said cheerfully, "You want me to walk down to the office for coffee and maybe stale donuts?"

"We'll grab something on the way," he replied.

"'Kay. I'll call a cab."

He wrapped the paper-thin towel around his waist and shuffled into the bedroom. He gathered up his clothes from the floor and dropped heavily onto the bed.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"Probably could use your help with these jeans. They're so damn tight."

She knelt beside the bed and helped him work his swollen feet into the legs of the jeans, struggling to work them past his calves. "I'm a lot better at getting you out of your jeans."

Looking down at her, try as he might, he couldn't force a smile.

"That was a joke," she said.

He gave her a bitter smile. "Yeah." He looked over his shoulder and did a quick scan of the room. He didn't see Alex's gun. "Did you?" he stood, pulling up his pants over his thighs.

"Did I what?"

He buttoned and zipped his jeans, still searching the room with his eyes.

"What?" She got to her feet holding his shirt.

He slipped his arm in, then the other, trying to force his memory to engage.

"What?" she repeated.

He didn't remember much about the walk to the motel after he'd abandoned the Tahoe along the side of the road. He was panicked, eager to get out of there before the police showed up, so desperate to escape that he must have forgotten the gun.

########

A half-hour later they had settled into the back seat of a taxi cab on their way to the airport, Blake's eyes fixed out the window. She gently placed her hand on his, then offered the BMW key fob, which he pocketed. They rode in silence for what seemed like an hour when he could no longer restrain himself.

"Who did you talk to at the hospital?" he asked.

"What?"

"Who told you that Damon had passed away?"

"Some doctor up on the floor. Why are we talking about this?"

Had he found the strength to face her, he would have seen a flicker of surprise in her eyes that quickly dissipated like the wisp of smoke from an extinguished match.

"Babe?" she asked.

"That was the tenth. The day before my Mom's birthday." He produced Alex's phone and scrolled through the text messages. "This is that creep's cellphone. Listen to this." He read the message. "Not at the hospital. Got an address? Response: Yeah, it's four-o-six Bradford Avenue. Apartment three."

Blake looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Damon's apartment."

He read another text. "The kid's real banged up. He don't know anything." He showed the phone to Rachel. "See the date of the text? It's the eleventh. The day after the doctor told you Damon was dead." His face reddened.

"Maybe they're making this up."

"Why?" He refused to meet her eyes.

"How should I know?"

"I checked the death notices in Pittsburgh for the past week. No Damon Lindsey."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He answered with a wounded gaze, his features now hardened.

"Why would I lie about something like that?" she asked.

The cabbie's eyes went to his rearview mirror, checking the commotion.

She worked up the tears then lowered her voice. "Do you know how scared I was when I saw them dragging you out of there?"

Before she could respond, he said, "Tell me one thing. Damon's car accident. Was that planned, or once it happened did you figure a way to use it?"

An incredulous look fell across her pretty face. "Babe! What's been going through your mind?"

He gazed back, his eyes filled with hurt.

As they passed signs for the airport the cabbie asked, "What airline are you flying?"

"Long-term parking," she replied.

The driver took the exit.

She brought Blake's hand to her mouth and kissed it, the little red heart tattoo at the base of her thumb staring him hard in the face. She whispered, "All I want is to be with you. That's all. Let's get that money and go. Just me and you. Together. Anywhere you wanna go."

Her words came out like the kind of poetry that most people hate, lyrical and rhythmic, but nobody has any idea what it actually means.

The cab slowed at the parking garage. "You want me to drop you off here?" the driver asked, lifting the visor of his ballcap.

"Just me," Blake said, pushing the sunglasses onto his face to mask eyes brimming with unasked questions. He threw open the door.

She latched onto his arm, summoning her best performance. "As long as we have each other, it's gonna be alright. I love you." She didn't even make a dent despite fervently meaning every word of it.

He'd tasted this bait too many times before. He pulled away and started down the sidewalk, his footsteps heavy, like all the grief in him had spilled down his legs, collecting in his shoes.

Her dark eyes filled as she watched him, feeling it all unfurl, the finality cutting deep. He walked into the garage and disappeared into the shadows.