Page 42

Lovebirds. How will I find you again?
I’m wasting time. Until someone recognizes me, I could get away. I should be far away from the Grove now, further across Florida or north into Georgia. I’m delaying the inevitable and the longer I don’t seek treatment the worse off my leg might be.
“Will they love you if you leave?” Fake Porscha asks as I drive down the narrow highway. “There won’t be much left if you abandon them again.”
“I didn’t abandon them!” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself. It doesn’t really matter, because no one else is going to bother giving me advice. “I went to prison.”
“You took the blame for a crime you didn’t orchestrate,” Fake Porscha says, and I do a double take when I notice her. She’s not the prim, pretty illusion of the monster in my head. Now, she’s sneering at me, and the phantom scent of cigarettes enters the cab of the truck like she’s really here. “You let me put all of the blame on you. All I had to do was die, boy.”
This must be the point where I lose the last of my sanity. That’s what it feels like anyway. “I killed people too. I took the blame because some of it rests solely on me.”
“I gave you drugs because you asked,” she tells me, laughing. “And you did whatever I wanted after that. Wasn’t it fun, working together?Killingtogether?”
I glare straight ahead. Even though it’s not tropical storm season, there's been a lot of rain the last few days. I don’t know how much longer the skies will hold before it’s pouring again. “You made me into the monster people whisper about in the system. Foster care kids are fucked up? It’s because most of us get fucked over wherever we’re sent too. I wasn’t that bad. Just… lost. And then you came in and took what was left of me and turned it ugly.”
“Oh, cry to the real me,” she snaps. “You didn’t have to go along with it. You were lonely. Deranged. Broken. I gave you purpose.”
“You gave me nothing.”
“You’re whiny today,” Fake Porscha mocks, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You’re nearly two decades too late to do anything about it. Even if some of the blame is shifted to me, you said it yourself. You aren’t blameless. You killed people. Women. Students. Peers. You nearly killed Jo.”
“That only happened becauseyoutried to hide her.”
“Details. It doesn’t matter in the end. You couldn’t save her. You couldn’t even save yourself.”
I jerk the wheel, swerving us onto the shoulder of the road. My eyes turn to the passenger seat as the rage builds inside me, but it’s empty. Porscha wasn’t there to begin with. It’s all in my head.
My fucked up, stupid head.
I drop my forehead onto the steering wheel, taking a few breaths. Is it guilt or madness that’s making the apparition worse? Porscha isn’t real, I’ve repeated that to myself so many times I don’t need the reminder.
It feels like I’m fighting a battle with myself. The part of me that misses Jo and Vinny can’t quite leave them behind, but the other half of me wants to survive. Fuck, I’ll even take Sterling at this point if I could have any one of the three of them to talk to.
There’s no one to confide in but myself. I don’t know anyone’s phone number to call for help and calling the FBI tipline or 911 is suicide on my part. Even if I went back to Citrus Grove, I’m not sure I can find the house Emeric owns to locate Jo and Vinny before someone spots me.
I’m out of options, wasting time trying to figure out my next move. I have no idea how long I sit here spiraling, almost missing Fake Porscha’s presence. At least when she’s here, she fills the silence. I need there to constantly be something happening in my head, or it feels like I’m going mad.
A gentle rain starts while I’m glaring at the floor, and I can hear it through the cracked windows. I reach up and turn off the radio, letting the calming sounds of nature wash over me.
For some reason, all it does is piss me off. There’s no zen out here. Lifting my head I glare out the windshield, moving to put the car in gear. The wheels spin when I press on the gas, but I don’t move forward. Frustrated, I slam down on the gas.
I can hear the tires working, but nothing happens. All the rain made the mud out here slick, and the tires must be bald. There’s zero traction right now, and the truck doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere. I stomp on the gas a few more times, telling myself that beating on the truck isn’t going to help me. The wheels finally grip something, and the vehicle jumps forward a little bit.
There’s no guarantee that I won’t be stuck again in a moment. That seems to sum up my luck. Walking in the rain isn’t ideal, and I’d prefer to not freeze to death out here. I’m pretty sure my leg needs some severe care and ran ain’t going to do it.
As I debated whether I should even try to move the truck with the gas gauge hanging out around the E, I notice someone moving in the distance. At first I’m sure my mind’s officially shattered, the last of my sanity giving way to the nightmares in my head.
There’s no fog, but there may as well be. The figure that’s approaching from the trees lives in my nightmares, and I’m not sure what tipped her off or how she found me. I thought Porscha hated storms, but maybe her latest personality got over that.
Blowing out a breath, I watch as Porscha approaches in the distance. I suppose I could get out and run, but my leg might not let me move that fast. I don’t see a car so maybe she’s lurking in the trees too.
Maybe it’s all in my head, like Fake Porscha. Maybe she’s not really here right now, and I can’t decide if the version of her approaching with a knife and that short black bob is real or fake.
I’m losing touch with reality.
Reaching into the duffel bag, I find the axe I took when I stole the truck. I should’ve taken one of Porscha’s knives, even the one she stabbed me with, but my mind is failing me when it comes to making good decisions. I’m not thinking everything through.
“You can’t run from me!” Porscha screams, and it doesn’t help me decide if this is real or fake. “I’ll always find you, Alastair. You don’t get to leave me.”