Page 221 of Ruin My Life

And considering how many Songbirds I’ve killed these past six months, that’s saying something.

I inhale slowly, forcing air into my lungs, trying to think.

We only spent a few days with Rebecka. I didn’t pay attention to landmarks or look for escape routes—I didn’t feel like I needed to. And I can’t just point Connor in a random direction. He’ll know. He’s waiting for me to try.

I need to give him something real.

But nottooreal.

Only one house comes to mind. The one I saw across the water from Rebecka’s, where the cliffside horseshoes around the rocky beach. Damon told me it belonged to an older couple who only came in the summer. Meaning it should be empty now.

It’s not far enough from Rebecka’s place to truly relax, but far enough to buy time. Maybe even enough to lower Connor’s guard. Just enough for me to make a move.

Or at the very least, stall until Damon finds us.

Because hehasto be on his way.

He’ll have found Lee—hopefully alive. He’ll know something’s wrong. That Connor and I are both gone. That I wouldn’t just disappear on him again.

Unless... unless Connor convinced him otherwise. He’s been manipulating him for months—years. Feeding lies. Who’s to say Damon won’t assume I’m safe, hiding out somewhere with Connor?

My chest tightens. I can’t afford to hope. Not too much.

The ferry lurches as it docks, the boat rocking slightly under us. Connor’s car rolls down the ramp and touches pavement. The second the tires hit solid ground, he nudges the muzzle of his gun harder into my side.

“Which way?” he asks.

I keep my gaze straight ahead. “Drive through town until you hit dirt. Then we head west.”

Connor hums low in his throat, like he’s amused. “Good girl,” he murmurs.

My stomach twists at the words.

While it’s praise on Damon’s tongue, I know Connor is using it to belittle me—to make me feel small and inferior.

All it’s doing stoking the fire in my chest.

My hands stay still in my lap, my expression carefully neutral. I swallow down every trace of disgust, every spark of fear that threatens to surface.

I don’t let him see it.

But I’m already picturing how I’ll kill him.

We travel west, tracing the same backroads Damon took. Paved streets crumble into dirt tracks, swallowed whole by dense forest and gnarled underbrush.

It’s quieter out here—tooquiet. The kind that makes your ears strain for phantom footsteps. The kind that makes every snap of a branch sound like a threat, every whisper of wind feel like breath on your neck.

The sort of quiet that convinces you you’re being watched, even when you know—know—there’s no one there.

As we pass the familiar turnoff that leads to Rebecka’s house, I point forward with a subtle nod. “Follow this path until we reach the end,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Detached. Obedient.

Connor mutters something under his breath and keeps driving, knuckles white against the wheel as the tires fight the rutted terrain. Ice crusts over the dips in the road where other wheels have gouged deep veins through the mud. Slush and gravel spit against the windows, painting the side mirrors in smeared, filthy streaks that swallow the view behind us.

The whole car shudders and protests with every pothole, every patch of frozen ground threatening to yank us sideways into the trees.

He grunts, low and bitter. “Figures he’d hide her out in the goddamn middle of nowhere.”

He glances at me, just once, like he expects sympathy.