The Whole Truth

The sign read "532 miles to Mexico," a stark reminder of the vast distance Scarlett had put between herself and the chaos she'd left behind.

She'd been driving since midnight, fueled by a potent mix of energy drinks and the chilling adrenaline of a fresh escape. Her heart, a frantic drum against her ribs, hammered louder as a cop car approached, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. She held her breath, every muscle tense, until the cruiser passed, its tail lights vanishing over a dip in the road.

Only then did she allow herself a shuddering exhale, the image of a discarded bridesmaid dress and the phantom feel of blood on her hands flashing in her mind. She was clean, physically, but the panic remained, a cold knot in her stomach.

“Deja vu,” she muttered to herself, the bitter irony almost making her laugh. On the run again. The gas light blinked accusingly, pulling her from her thoughts. An exit loomed, and she veered towards it, pulling into a gas station. Rain began to pour, a fitting accompaniment to her grim reality.

Stepping out of the stolen pickup, she moved with practiced efficiency, hitting 'pay inside' before ducking back into the cab. The glove compartment held her meager possessions: a wad of tear-soaked tissues, two thousand dollars inexplicably tucked into a cigarette pack, and the fake ID that had served her for the past year. She pulled out the ID, dropped it into a half-empty coffee cup, and tossed it into the overflowing trash bin.

"Goodbye, Scarlett Murray," she whispered, watching the cup disappear. Scarlett was dead. Just like the others. Now, it was time for someone new to be born.