If Elizabeth notices a change in me, she doesn’t comment on it. My sudden calm, my lack of fear. We drive. And drive. Cross several state lines, change cars twice within two days.

She knows every trick in the book and has four different IDs. When she gives me my own fake ID, I don’t even blink. She tells me that she hoped this day would never come, but that hope didn’t stop her from preparing for it.

We don’t talk about Alexis again. Nor do we talk much at all, at least not about the past, which dwindles rapidly in our rearview. Instead we talk about where we’re going in Mexico, how we’ll stay for a week with her so-called friends. Just enough time to get new passports and identification. They’ll be fake, but mine will bear my real name—the name on the Cooks Island account.

Once the papers come through, we’ll go for the money. And then we’ll disappear.

I nod. I offer suggestions. Strategies. And when she lists off remote locations for our eventual life, I nod again. Sounds good. She sweetens the deal by telling me doctors are always needed. That I can practice medicine—discreetly—wherever we land.

I don’t tell her I already know where I’m going, and it’s not Morocco, Mongolia, or Papua New Guinea. I plan on flying straight into the sun.

Even if it kills me.

* * *

We drive eight to twelve hours a day, sometimes all night. We stop occasionally to grab food and quick showers at a truck stop or to get some sleep at a seedy motel. When we do sleep, it’s in shifts, one of us posted by the window to monitor the parking lot. We request ground level, corner units each time.

On our fourth day of driving, we reach Las Cruces, New Mexico, an hour outside the Mexican border and the city of Juarez. We’re going to avoid the major crossing, however, and leave the U.S. through the smaller outpost of Santa Teresa. When I ask again about passports, Elizabeth maintains that we won’t have any problems. As she clearly has more experience with border crossings than I do, I let the matter drop.

We find a motel for the night. Shower and eat crappy takeout and watch the news on a tiny television with bad static. Neither of us mention the news clip of the death of twelve men in a Seattle hospital last week or the disappearance of a doctor. Or the search for three shooters, speculated to be members of an extremist terrorist group.

Twelve dead.

Neither of us sleep.

At four thirty in the morning, we get in the car and make the hour-long drive to the border. The sky is still dark, though bleeding to navy as the sun readies its ascent. The line isn’t long, maybe ten cars ahead of us.

“Calm down,” murmurs Elizabeth. “Unclench your hands.”

I take several deep breaths and relax my fingers. We move forward little by little. Before long, we’re under the canopy and the kiosk is beside us. A Border Patrol officer peers into the car, his gaze cursory yet piercing. Just as Elizabeth coached me, I don’t smile, instead affecting boredom. It works. The officer nods, stepping back, and the light above us turns green.

We drive into Mexico as the sun rises.

A mere four hours later, we enter Chihuahua City. As we near the city’s downtown, our surroundings become older and more beautiful. Buildings with incredible colonial architecture sit on nearly every block, and massive cathedrals rise toward the placid blue sky.

It’s obvious Elizabeth has been here before; she navigates easily through hectic traffic and thick pedestrian flow. Parking the car in an alley off a busy street, she pulls the keys from the ignition and tosses them down by her feet.

“Don’t leave anything behind. We won’t be back.”

Our duffels slung over our shoulders, we walk to the street and into the light. The air itself is cool, but the sun feels less filtered, searing my eyes and making them water.

We walk three blocks, take a detour through a narrow alley clogged by drying laundry, and finally stop outside an unmarked door, it’s cracked wooden surface stained a mottled blue.

Elizabeth knocks.

A tense minute later, the door opens.

A woman’s face appears, dark eyes widened with horror. “Corre! Run!” she hisses. She’s yanked backward. There’s a muffled pop, then a thud as her body hits the floor. Somewhere inside, a child wails.

“No,” whispers Elizabeth.

She grabs my arm, nails biting into my skin, and pulls me back. My limbs are leaden with fear. I stumble, tripping over a loose brick. Her grip slips as I fall, my knees biting into the rough ground.

For a second—one eternal second—our eyes lock. I nod. She turns and runs. Time resumes its normal pace, and in moments she’s gone, lost in the sun and crowds at the end of the alley.

The man leaning against the doorway watches her go, then turns to me. When I look at him, he smiles slightly. Sunlight shines dully against the dark metal of the gun in his hand.

“How did you know I was going to kill her but not you?” he asks mildly.

I push to my feet, wiping errant gravel from my knees. “I didn’t. Not until you just told me.”

His sandy eyebrows lift. “You always were a smart one, weren’t you, lass? How bout we make this easy—tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you follow your mother.”

“What is it you want to know?” I ask carefully.

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t play dumb, Eden. Where are the diamonds?”

My blood runs cold. My voice stutters. “W-what? I don’t know anything about diamonds.”

He steps out of the doorway. Behind him, I see a child—eleven or twelve—crouched over the fallen woman and sobbing quietly. Without even checking her vitals, I know she’s dead.

Resolve tightens my shoulders. I look into Chris’s eyes. “If I do tell you where these alleged diamonds are, you’ll kill me.”

He winces. “You’re right about that. See, when you turn on the family, you’re not liable to be forgiven. And your betrayal was rather extreme, wasn’t it? But as you’ve found, the family isn’t without mercy. We let you have a life these six years. I hope you enjoyed them.”

“Not particularly, no.”

Chris laughs. “I can hardly believe it, but I think I’ve missed your mouth.” He takes another step toward me. “Remember what I told you before? This goes one of two ways. Easy. Or hard.”

I take a breath. Swallow past a dry throat.

“I’ll take hard.”

I don’t see his hand with the gun move. There’s an explosion of light and sound.

Then nothing.