Page 91 of Breaking Ophelia

He points ahead to the only vehicle in the lot and we walk a little faster, chests heaving by the time we make it.

Caius pulls out the keys to a battered old truck, the kind that’s all engine and no safety features. It smells like gasoline and old leather.

“For a rich boy, you drive a piece of shit.”

“My mom bought it for me.” He says, patting the hood fondly. “Once we’re safe, I’ll park her in the garage and restore her. 1979 Little Red Express. It’s a collectors, but I’ve let it go over time.”

He throws the bags in the back seat, then opens the door for me. His hands are shaking now, but not as much as mine.

Inside, the heat is on full blast. He pulls out of the lot slow, careful, and doesn’t say a word until we’re half a mile from the campus.

Then he looks over at me, his eyes black and unreadable.

“You scared?” he asks.

I think about it. About the brand on my shoulder, about the blood on his mouth, about my father and the Board and the way they all looked at me like I was already dead.

“No,” I say, and it’s almost true. “Not with you.”

He laughs, a dry, cracked sound. “You shouldn’t trust me. You know what I am.”

I look at him, really look, and for the first time I don’t see the monster. I see the boy who never had a chance. The one who’s been trying to survive since before he was old enough to spell his own name.

“Yeah,” I say. “But you’re all I have.”

He doesn’t answer. He just drives, fast and silent, eyes on the road, jaw clenched.

I lean back, close my eyes, and let myself breathe.

I feel almost safe.

Not happy.

Not free.

But safe, with him.

It’s enough.

As we pull away, I look back at the chapel.

My father is gone. Not even a shadow left.

I thought it would feel like victory.

Instead, it just feels like death of who I was.

The highway is empty except for us and the world we’re leaving behind. Every mile the tires eat is another nail in the coffin of my old life, and I can’t decide if it’s a funeral or a birth.

Caius doesn’t talk much, not even to me. He drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes locked on the white lines, jaw set. He keeps checking the rearview, but there’s nothing there but dust and the outline of Westpoint, growing smaller with every minute.

I want to say something, but the words don’t form. I just listen to the engine, the rush of air through the half-cracked window, the rattle of something loose in the dashboard.

He waits until we’re ten miles out, then thumbs the center console, blue light flickering on the dash. “Slade,” he says.

The phone rings once. Twice. Then a voice, low and amused, comes through the speakers. “Thought you’d be dead by now, cousin.”

Caius cracks a smile, barely. “Not yet. I need a favor.”