Things We Can't Say

3: my hobbies include food, murder, and sometimes, arson.

"Jamie, we're leaving."

He's still passed out on his bed. I expect him to sit up, but when he doesn't move, I nab a pillow and toss it at him. That wakes him up. "Gah! What was that for?"

"Didn't you hear me?"

"No. I was asleep."

I roll my eyes, already dropping down to my knees to drag my suitcase out from underneath my bed. "I said we're leaving," I tell him. "I'm not sure where we're going yet, but what I know for sure is that we can't stay here."

"I'm confused, Vy." His voice is closer, and when I look up I find him standing over me, scrubbing a hand through his hair, which is already sticking up enough as it is. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah, something happened. Guillermo is dead and the circus is in ashes, and better yet, the police have a picture of us at the scene."

I watch his face flood with realization for a moment, his mouth parting in surprise. Then he shrugs. "There were plenty of people at the circus last night, though."

"Yeah, not in the tents, Jamie!" I say, throwing the dresser drawers open. I stop a moment, hating to defile the neatly folded stacks of clothes by throwing them in the suitcase, but I just don't have the time. If the police were to bust down the door right this second, we'd have no choice but to fight them, and I'd rather not have to shed any more blood. "Listen. Even if we're just suspects, I'm not going to sit around and wait for them to connect the remaining dots. So can we just go, please?"

Jamie's frowning. I know that frown, because I saw it last night, because I've seen it a few times before then. It's just a slight knit to his brow, a subtle pout to his mouth, but I know he's blaming himself again. And I know there's nothing I can say to change that.

I try anyway.

I kick the suitcase to the side, nudging the drawer shut. "Jamie, look at me," I say, and he does. "It's not your fault. Besides, whatever happens, I've got your back. Okay?"

His smile is timorous, but at least it's there. "I know."

It takes us twenty minutes to pack everything, another fifteen for me to scour the whole room from ceiling to floor to ensure there's no trace of us left here. After that, we check out, hitching a ride on a city bus rank with the scents of sweat and the old, discarded sandwich likely rotting somewhere near the back. We ride until I feel like we're far enough, and even then we're just barely out of Granada, somewhere between there and Motril, a city on Spain's southern coast.

I exhale, parking my suitcase on the cobblestone sidewalk and leaning against it as I give the area a brief appraisal. The air out here seems clearer, at least: a cleaner, fresher lift to it now that so many people's breaths don't mingle with it. An open meadow sits to our right, a modest main street to our left, where everything is earthy cobblestone and white brick, topped with terra cotta roofs.

With a happy little sigh, Jamie stoops to sniff a daisy, but I tug him away by his arm. As much I'd love to stop and smell the flowers, our number one priority at the moment is getting out of sight.

At a nondescript bed and breakfast that leans a bit on its foundation, I hand the innkeeper a wad of paper euros and rent us a room for the night. I get the strange feeling that if I ever knew my grandmother, this place would remind me of her: dated paisley furniture, a cramped wire-frame bed Jamie and I will unfortunately have to share (he kicks a lot in his sleep, so I'm not looking forward to it) floral wallpaper and the subtle yet undeniable scent of mothballs and herbal tea.

For the time being, however, it's more than enough. I'm not planning to be here beyond tonight anyway—by tomorrow, I'll have a plan. A plan for where we're going to go and how we're going to get there and how we're not going to get caught on the way.