Chapter 348: Abandonment
After steadying his nerves, Walter started the engine and drove off, intending to go home.
But two blocks later, he slowed.
Then he turned the car around.
There were still loose ends.
---
He returned to Pinkman's house.
First, he gathered all the cash—especially the large travel bags stuffed to bursting with bills—and loaded everything into his trunk.
Then he spread a bedsheet on the floor, lifted Jane's body onto it, and wrapped her tightly.
Carrying the bundled corpse over his shoulder, Walter walked out of the house and placed her in the back seat of his car. He went back inside once more, tidied up the obvious mess, made sure nothing looked suspicious, and carefully closed the door behind him.
He drove home briefly to retrieve some tools.
Then he headed out of the city.
---
Walter drove to the remote location where he and Pinkman had first started cooking together—a hidden, forgotten place unlikely to attract attention.
He stepped out with a shovel.
And began to dig.
Digging a grave large enough to fit a body—alone, with nothing but a shovel—was no simple task.
He dug, rested, dug again. Hours passed. By the time the pit was finally deep enough, it was nearly dawn.
Walter opened the car door and dragged the girl's now-cold body out of the back seat.
He avoided looking at her face—at the frozen expression in her unclosed eyes. Without hesitation, he dumped the sheet-wrapped body into the grave.
"I'm sorry," he muttered under his breath.
Then he began filling the hole.
He didn't leave a mound. Once the earth was level with the ground, he stopped. He scattered extra dirt around to make it look natural, ensuring nothing would draw attention.
Only when he was satisfied did he return to his car and drive away.
---
The digging and burying left him caked in mud.
But Walter didn't go straight home.
Instead, he found a 24-hour roadside motel, rented a room, and took a long shower. He washed his dirty clothes in the sink and hung them to dry.
Exhaustion weighed on him like lead.
He sat on the edge of the bed, planning to rest for just a moment before heading home once his clothes dried.
He fell asleep instantly.
---
When Walter opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming in.
It was already afternoon.
For several seconds, he stared blankly at the unfamiliar motel ceiling, his mind sluggish and unfocused.
Then reality hit.
"Shit!"
He bolted upright—
"Ah—!" Pain shot through him. He sucked in a sharp breath.
Every muscle in his arms and legs screamed in protest. The delayed agony of manual labor he'd never done before now tore through his body. The digging hadn't hurt much at the time—but after sleep, the strain had settled in.
But he couldn't afford to think about the pain.
He grabbed his phone.
Dead. Battery drained.
Walter hurried into his clothes and rushed out.
As he drove home, his mind raced.
He hadn't come home last night. He hadn't shown up all day. He had classes to teach.
Skyler would have noticed.
The school would have noticed.
The more he thought about it, the worse it felt.
And earlier that day…
Sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains as morning arrived.
Pinkman slowly opened his eyes. The high had worn off—or maybe he'd simply slept it off.
"Jane…"
Still groggy, he rolled over, reaching out to pull his girlfriend into his arms.
His hand met nothing but empty space.
"Jane?" He pushed himself upright and called out again, assuming she'd gone to the bathroom—or maybe she was making breakfast.
No answer.
"Jane!?"
He threw off the blanket, climbed out of bed barefoot, and hurried out of the bedroom, calling her name.
He searched the entire house.
Nothing.
Maybe she'd gone back to her own place? He ran next door and knocked. No response there either.
It was barely six or seven in the morning. Most people were still asleep. Where could she have gone?
A flicker of panic set in.
He pulled out his phone and called her.
Powered off.
"My money—!"
His eyes swept the room—and suddenly he noticed it.
The spot where the cash had been was empty.
Gone.
"Burglary? Robbery?" That was his first thought.
Then—
A worse possibility crept into his mind.
One he didn't want to believe.
"No… Jane wouldn't do that."
He didn't lose control. He didn't call the police.
Instead, he sat down on the couch, lit a cigarette, and forced himself to calm down.
Frank had taught him that—slow down, think first.
But the way his leg bounced uncontrollably betrayed how hard that was.
After steadying himself, Pinkman checked the house again—carefully this time.
The more he looked, the more it seemed to confirm the suspicion he didn't want to face.
"I have to find her!"
He grabbed his jacket and rushed out the door.
Whatever had happened—he needed to see her.
Right now, he wasn't thinking about the missing millions.
He was thinking about her.
---
He drove all over the city.
The tattoo shop where she worked.
The park she liked.
The movie theater she'd mentioned once.
He drove until nightfall without eating a single thing.
He found nothing.
When he finally returned home, he didn't turn on the lights. He dragged himself to the couch and collapsed, staring blankly at the dark ceiling.
After a long time, he lit another cigarette and sat there in silence.
"I don't believe it… She wouldn't abandon me…" he murmured into the darkness.
---
When Walter came to see Pinkman, he nearly choked the moment he stepped inside. The entire house was thick with cigarette smoke.
Then he saw Pinkman.
It had only been two days.
But Pinkman looked like he'd lost ten pounds. His eye sockets were sunken. His lips were cracked and dry. The ashtray overflowed into a mound, and cigarette butts littered the floor.
"You… what happened to you?" Walter asked quickly.
"Mr. White…" Pinkman's hollow eyes lifted to him. His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't had water in days. "Jane… she's gone. She didn't say anything. She took all my money and left."
"When was the last time you ate? Or drank anything?" Walter grabbed a glass and filled it with water. "Here. Drink."
Pinkman seized the cup with both hands and gulped it down desperately.
"Cough—! Cough!!"
He drank too fast and choked.
"Slow down. Slow down," Walter said quickly.
He didn't need a broken, dying Pinkman.
He needed a functional Pinkman.
Useful.
Alive enough to work.