It was done. She had packed everything.
I was leaving.
"This is Mr. and Mrs. Phillips," Sophia said, gesturing to an older couple waiting patiently by the door. "They'll be taking you to Mexico."
"Hi," I said, forcing a smile. I moved to lift one of the heavy suitcases.
"No, no, it's fine. Let me." Mr. Phillips stepped forward. He took the handle and lifted it with an ease that belied his age. No strain, just a simple, efficient motion.
Wow. Are men really just built like that?
A tired, cynical thought drifted through the haze of my goodbye. Women get downgraded by nature. Slimmer frames, less brute strength. We're engineered for other kinds of endurance.
That's why it always makes me happy to see female bodybuilders.
Warriors. Living proof we could be anything. That the blueprint isn't fixed.
He loaded the luggage into the van. I took a shaky breath, one foot on the step, ready to climb in and seal my fate.
Then a voice sliced through the quiet morning.
"CAMILLA!"
The sound was a shriek of pure fury. A car—Bran's sister Elara's sleek sedan—screeched to a halt in Sophia's driveway, gravel spraying.
Elara herself erupted from the driver's seat. Her face was a mask of triumphant malice.
"You are so stupid! Where do you think you're going? The police were at our house! They're looking for you everywhere!"
Sophia stepped forward, a wall of cold fury. "This isn't your house? You don't drive in and out however you like."
"Oh, save it!" Elara spat, not even glancing at her. "Just another stupid friend who won't tell her friend the truth."
Slowly, my foot still on the step, I turned.
"Elara?"
For one dizzying second, I had almost forgotten the Harts existed. That this world of police and running was anchored to their universe of hatred.
But now, the illusion shattered.
"Don't you dare call my name, you murderer! You killed Mr. Charles because he was going to fire you!" She turned her venomous gaze toward the wide-eyed Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. "She's a fugitive! Are you really helping her run?"
Mr. and Mrs. Phillips turned to look at each other. I could see it—the silent, frantic pressure in their eyes. The cozy domestic facade shattered by the word murderer.
Without a word, Mrs. Phillips grabbed her husband's arm and dragged him toward the van. They shut the doors, but the window was cracked. Their hushed, panicked voices carried like a verdict on the morning air.
"She's a criminal, love. Let's go. Now."
"We should at least listen—"
"Listen to what? The police will be after us! It's beautiful girls like her that get caught in this mess. She's a psychopath!" Her whisper was a desperate, fearful hiss.
But I'm not.
The denial screamed inside my skull, silent and useless.
I didn't kill him. He was the psychopath. He told me to suck his—
The memory was a hot blade of shame. I was just caught in the middle. A piece of evidence that had gotten up and walked away, now being judged by everyone who glanced my way.
Sophia immediately strode to the van. She yanked the driver's door open, not caring that they were mid-argument.
"I paid you both to take her to Mexico. You will. You must."
"Miss, we cannot—" Mr. Phillips began, his voice strained.
"There is no 'cannot' here." Her voice was a blade of ice. "You must."
A heavy silence filled the van.
"And what about this lady here?" Mrs. Phillips whispered, her eyes darting fearfully to Elara. "She knows she was here. She'll tell."
Sophia turned slowly, her gaze landing on Elara. A cold, calculating smile touched her lips. "Will she?"
Then, without breaking eye contact with Elara, she raised her voice in a clear, sharp command.
"Camilla. Get in the van. Now."
I loved that Sophia was helping, but… maybe Elara was right. Maybe running was the act of a guilty person. I should stay. I should clear my name.
"Sophia, maybe…" The words slipped out, weak and trembling. Tears spilled over my cheeks.
"Maybe what?!"
It was the first time I'd ever seen tears in Sophia's eyes. My crazy, unshakeable, glamorous friend was crying.
"Camilla…" Her voice broke. She swiped at her face with an angry, frustrated hand. "You have gone through so much. Your parents died. Bran died. You will not go to jail. You are too innocent."
She took a shaky step closer, her composure crumbling.
"I fucking hated you, you know? Eight years ago, when you came back from the orphanage. You were too good. Too calm. Like nothing could touch you." A raw, humorless laugh escaped her.
"But now I see it. I see that you don't deserve any of this. You were so brave, even back then. I… I always wanted to be like you. And it wasn't your fault. None of it."
Her eyes locked onto mine, blazing with a ferocious certainty.
"You. Will. Not. Go. To. Jail. You did nothing wrong."
"No…" I was crying too, the sobs tearing from a place deeper than fear. It was grief. For the life I was losing, for the friend I was leaving behind in this mess.
"I'll miss you, Camilla. I actually will." She buried her face in my shoulder, her tears hot against my skin. Her hug was fierce, a final, desperate anchor. "You'll have a new life. A better one."
"This is rubbish!" Elara's voice cut through our grief, sharp and disgusted. "You're an asshole, Camilla. A coward." She glared at us, her earlier triumph now twisted into pure contempt. "I might not say a word… but I pray the police find you. You're both so… messed up!"
With a final, furious shake of her head, she spun on her heel, stormed back to her car, and screeched out of the driveway, leaving only the smell of burnt rubber and her curse hanging in the air.
I got into the van.
The door shut with a soft, definitive thud, sealing me into the quiet, leather-scented interior. Through the window, Sophia grew smaller—a solitary figure in her driveway, one hand raised in a frozen wave.
Then the engine engaged, and the world began to move. Houses, trees, the life I knew, all sliding past the glass like a film reel I was no longer in.
I was leaving. Actually leaving.
And as the van pulled onto the main road, picking up speed, the only thought in my head was a silent, screaming echo:
What have I just done?
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To be continued...