desertion

113

LYDIA

They're getting closer.

It's all I can think about as I stand in the kitchen, staring out the window while police officers comb through the backyard. Every rustle of grass or flash of a flashlight feels like a punch to my chest. My heart hasn't stopped racing since I saw that hose.

The USB drive is gone now, taken into evidence. It feels wrong. Like a piece of the puzzle was ripped from my hands before I could even attempt to figure it out. If I'd just had more time... I could've done something with it. Broken it apart. Looked at the data, tracked the file origins, found something. People make mistakes. Criminals make mistakes. I just needed the chance to find one.

I shake my head hard, trying to push those thoughts out before they root themselves too deep. Miles is already on edge about my obsession; I don't need to make it worse.

Speaking of Miles... he's standing beside me, his hand brushing against mine. He's been apologizing since the police arrived. So has Nathaniel. It's like all we've been doing is arguing these past few days-fighting over what's safe, what's right, who's overreacting and who isn't. It's exhausting, and the guilt weighs heavy on me now.

I apologized, too. Quietly. I think they heard me, but the words didn't feel big enough. Nothing does.

The officers finish their sweep of the backyard and start packing up their gear. One of them comes over, a clipboard in hand. They tell me it's best if I leave the house for a while, stay somewhere else. "Just until we've had more time to investigate," they say.

I know it makes sense. I know it's probably the safest thing to do.

But the thought of leaving makes me feel like my skin is too tight.

Miles insists I stay at his house. "We'll make it work," he says, his tone firm but kind. Nathaniel quickly adds that he'll be staying in the guest room because apparently, his new role as my protective guard dog requires him to be within a five-foot radius at all times.

I manage a half-hearted joke about how they're overdoing it, but it falls flat. They just give me those concerned looks I'm starting to hate, like I'm going to shatter into pieces at any moment.

When we get back inside, I head to my room to pack a bag. The walls feel closer than usual, the space too quiet and too loud at the same time. My fingers tremble as I pull clothes from my drawers, folding them in neat little piles I'm too distracted to care about.

This is my room. My safe space.

And now I have to leave it.

The thought sits heavy in my chest as I zip my bag closed. I glance around, my eyes lingering on the things I can't bring with me: the photo of Chris and me on my nightstand, the stack of books on my desk, the blanket Abuela crocheted for me last Christmas. It feels wrong to leave them behind.

I shake my head, hard, trying to shake the sadness away. This isn't the time to get sentimental. It's just a house, just a room.

Right?

Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I walk out of my room without looking back. I don't trust myself to.

Miles is waiting by the front door, his keys jingling in his hand. Nathaniel is already outside, muttering something about how they'll have to make a quick stop at his place so he can grab his stuff.

"Road trip," Miles says with a weak smile as he opens the car door for me.

I slide into the passenger seat, feeling weirdly out of place. This isn't how things are supposed to be. This isn't normal.

Nathaniel climbs into the backseat, immediately stretching out like he owns the place. He mutters something sarcastic about how he's going to have to babysit both of us now. Miles shoots him a look, but I barely hear them.

My fingers fiddle with the strap of my bag as we pull out of the driveway. The tires crunch against the gravel, and I can't help but glance back at the house.

It feels smaller from the outside. Fragile, even.

I turn away quickly, focusing on the road ahead.

I want things to go back to normal.

But this... this isn't my normal.