Page 127 of Fire and Silk

I clutch the grip tighter.

The door opens. He slides in. His hand goes to the gearshift.

I turn and press the barrel to the side of his throat.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been expecting this the whole time.

“Of course,” he mutters, his voice tight. “Of course you’d find it.”

I keep the gun steady against his throat.

His breath is shallow, his eyes pinned to mine like he’s trying to find the version of me he used to know. He won’t. She’s gone.

He leans forward slightly, like he might talk me down. Like a man still clinging to hope.

“You’re out of your mind,” he says. “He doesn’t want you. He told you he used you. Are you dumb?”

My hand tightens.

My face is cold. The kind of cold that comes after too much heat. After much crying. My cheeks sting. My throat aches from holding it all in.

“I don’t want you either,” I whisper. My lips barely move. “And I do not care if he wants me or not. I want my place in the world.”

I look at him then, really look—at the man who stood beside me while they tied my wrists. At the man who watched me scream into duct tape and never flinched.

“Fuck you,” I say. “And fuck him.”

He flinches now. Finally.

His hands lift from the wheel, slowly, like I might shoot him right there. The whites of his eyes shine in the dark, too wide to be calm.

“Can’t you give me a chance?” he asks. His voice cracks. “We can start over. I’ll fix it. Just... come back.”

“I already started without you.” My fingers tremble again, but my voice doesn’t. The words leave my mouth flat, final.

He looks stunned. It only lasts a moment. Then he blinks, and something inside him breaks. The pain floods his expression too fast for him to cover it.

He nods. His voice goes soft.

“Then shoot me, Lira.” He presses his throat into the gun. “Go on. I’d rather die than live without you.”

I stare at him. At the tear clinging to the edge of his lashes. At the desperate way he watches me like he thinks there’s still a door open somewhere.

There isn’t.

I lower the gun—slowly. Not out of mercy.

The barrel presses to my own temple.

His mouth opens. “Lira—”

“I mean it,” I say, each word sharpened. “You’ll have towatchme die.”

His eyes widen. He lunges forward.

I start to pull. He smacks my wrist sideways. The gun fires as my finger squeezes, and the side mirror bursts outward in a mess of glass and sparks. The gun clatters to the floor. People scream outside. A woman ducks. A man shouts something from across the parking lot. Feet scatter.

Inside the car, it’s still. Just breathing.