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“Yeah, I guess. It's just hard to rationalize it.”

Poppy couldn't rationalize it because she was a good person. She couldn't understand the twists and turns this type of life takes. You couldn't trust a soul. And anyone you did trust, you only trusted so far. You always had to have your guard up. Always.

But I was pretty certain I knew why her father killed her mother. Her mother was going to go to the feds. She was tired of living a lie. Mrs. Aneska didn't want to live in hiding anymore. She wanted to live a real life. Not a life of corruption and false happiness. The longer she was immersed in his world, the harder it was to get out. There was a point of no return, and Poppy's mother had passed it like the wife of a mobster. There was no walking away.

Poppy's mother was going to come clean to the cops, and her father had to stop it. What better way than to make your wife look crazy and then have her take her own life? It was genius. Fool proof. Simple and clean.

“Here we are,” I said. I pulled a bunch of branches back to reveal a hidden, green jeep. “Our ticket out of here.”

She cocked a brow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Who just has a secret escape vehicle tucked away in the woods?”

“Prepared people, and I do, obviously.” I shrugged my shoulder as I pulled the passenger door open. “You can never be too careful.”

“Regular people don't need to be this careful.”

“If you haven't noticed, I'm not a regular person.”

Poppy climbed into the front seat, rolled her eyes, and said, “I noticed. It was hard not to.”

I got in the driver's seat and dug the key out from its secret spot. I was hoping it would still start. I hadn't come out to start it in ages. I used to do it once every three months, and then it was every six months, and now it was barely once a year. I think I started to overestimate my own security. My own worth among the barbarians. My own strength among the wealthy. My own mortality against my own evil. I had gotten sloppy and failed to be diligent.

“Here goes nothing,” I said as I pushed the key inside the ignition and turned. “Come on, you got this.” The engine bumbled a little but roared to life with a feather of the gas pedal. “Ah, my trusty steed. He never lets me down.” I rubbed the dashboard and ran my hands around the steering wheel.

“Men and their cars. You're all the same.”

“Are we now?”

“Yes. It doesn't matter who you are. You guys talk to your cars like they can understand you.”

“Maybe they can,” I said, shifting the jeep into gear and hitting the gas.

The jeep launched out, ripping through the forest like a bear on a rampage. Debris was kicked up behind us. Deep tread marks stamped the earth like burn scars on skin. There was a tight path for us to follow. The jeep grazed the rough surface of tree trunks and the long branches stretching out like claws.

Poppy gripped the bar above her head as the terrain was uneven, causing her to bounce and shift in her seat. I had onehand on the wheel and one on the shifter as I drove us further away from the terror chasing her.

The wind blew her hair, making it dance around her face. But I noticed that she seemed to look lighter. Her eyes glinted with hope. Her mouth was soft and relaxed. Her knuckles were skin-toned and not white with fear. Poppy was getting soothed by the thought of escape.

And so was I. My plan was to drive her as far away from here as possible. I was going to save her and be her hero. I would be the reason her life flourished and became something it never could before.

A real life. A real experience. Real memories that won't be altered by the magic of persuasion and drugs.

Poppy could finally live.

Chapter Seventeen

Poppy

We drove through cavernous ditches and around thick trees. The tires would lift off the ground as Vega took a sharp corner or as the jeep hit uneven earth. I swayed with the motion and bounced in tandem with each hurdle.

The forest eventually opened up to a dirt road, and I expected to feel a sense of relief. But all I felt was this heavy mass of hopeless anger. My life was nothing but lies. Everything I thought I knew and felt and remembered was a mirage—smoke and mirrors.

“I want to talk to him,” I said.

“What?” Vega asked.

“My father. I want to talk to him.”

“That's not a good idea, Poppy. You know—”