63. Choosing Shadows

CHAPTER 63

Choosing Shadows

ILEANA

Ten minutes.

My mom’s words echo in my head as I bury my face into Wren’s hoodie. I haven’t taken it off since leaving his house. It’s my one remaining connection to him, to Silverlake Rapids, to the reminder that I’m real. I exist. The scent of his cologne is fading, but it’s still there, wrapping around me like a promise, as I stare out of the motel window, counting fireflies in the parking lot. Each one marks another obstacle, another place I could be seen.

Ten minutes to choose.

Safety or freedom. Invisibility or fire.

Agent Miller’s voice drones on the edge of my attention, listing extraction routes and safe houses. The sound twists something inside me. All those plans to make me disappear again. Toward undoing the fire Wren has sparked inside me.

But I’m done letting other people decide who I get to be.

Mom moves around the room, quiet like always, but her eyes keep finding me. I’ve never seen her look at me like this before. There’s fear, yes, but something else too. Understanding. Guilt. She knows what I’m about to do. She knows because she once made a similar choice.

I hold the memory of Wren tight, like the hoodie I refuse to let go of. The light in his eyes when he looked at me. Not through me. Not around me. At me. He saw what I didn’t know was there. Something alive, burning just beneath the surface.

And now, I can’t unsee it either.

"They'll check the bus stations first," my mother says softly, not looking at me directly. "And the trains."

The words carry weight. Meaning. She's giving me information while keeping enough distance to deny it later.

I nod slightly, acknowledging the gift. We’ve spent a lifetime communicating through silence. It’s one of the only things we’ve ever shared.

Eight minutes.

My backpack sits near the bathroom door, stuffed with the few things I was allowed to bring. No phone. No cards. No real ID. Nothing that could be traced. Not that I have any of those things. They thought they were making it harder for anyone to find me. Instead, they've made it easier for me to run.

"The agent stationed at the back," my mother continues, her voice so soft I almost don’t hear it, "he takes smoke breaks every thirty minutes."

Another gift. Another unspoken approval.

Seven minutes.

I think about the roses I left crossed on the floor, pointing north and west. The ruined ballet shoes placed in third position, echoing the same directions. A message only Wren would understand. Only Wren would be obsessive enough to decode … I hope.

He has to.

I have no other way to contact him. No way to know if he's figured it out. But I know him. I know the way his mind works—obsessive, relentless, always searching for answers. If anyone can decode what I left behind, it’s him.

He’ll understand. He always understands.

Six minutes.

Footsteps sound in the hallway. One of Agent Miller’s men, getting ready to move us to whatever planned safe house they've arranged. To pack me away in some quiet corner where no one will ever find me.

Where Wren will never find me .

The thought twists like a knife, but I keep my face neutral. My mom’s fingers brush my arm.

"The ice machine," she whispers. "It blocks the security camera's view of the back fence."

Five minutes.

My eyes burn as I pull Wren’s hoodie tighter around me, breathing him in. The faint scent grounds me. It’s stupid how much comfort I take from it, how much I let it tether me to the decision I’ve already made.

Wren is dangerous.

But not to me.

Not when he’s the only person who ever looked at me like I was somebody. Not when he’s the reason I understand what it means to feel alive.

Four minutes.

My mother slips something into my pocket. I don't need to look to know what it is. Emergency cash. A final gift. Enough to keep me going for a couple of days.

“Be smart,” she whispers.

Three minutes.

I close my eyes. Be smart. I’ve spent my entire life being smart. Being silent, careful, invisible. But being smart doesn’t make me alive . Wren did that, with his darkness and his obsession, and the way he made me feel seen.

Two minutes .

The agent at the back will be due for his smoke break soon. My mother knows it, and I know it. She doesn’t say goodbye, but when her eyes meet mine, I see the truth she won’t speak out loud. She’s afraid for me, but she understands.

“I love you.”

I can’t say it back. Not now. Not when the words feel like they might break me apart.

One minute.

“I need to use the bathroom.” The words are casual, but my heart is hammering when I stand, picking up my bag. The agent in the hallway doesn’t even glance at me as I step inside the bathroom. I lock the door behind me and count to twenty.

Time's up.

The window is small, but I’m used to making myself smaller. Used to moving through spaces no one else notices.

The night air hits my face as I ease through the opening. I move like a shadow through the parking lot, between the lights, merging with the darkness. It’s always been my refuge, but tonight it’s more. It’s become my weapon.

The cash in my pocket feels like a lifeline and a promise.

I’m not running away . I’m running toward .

They’ll expect a scared girl, someone stumbling, unsure. They’ll look for me in all the predictable places. They won’t expect me to move like this. Through alleys and empty spaces, faster than they can follow.

North and west. The direction I chose. The direction I gave Wren.

Each step is a promise. Each breath a declaration.

I won’t let them take me back.

The wind tugs at my hood, Wren’s scent filling my nose. He’s not here, but I can feel him anyway. A presence just out of reach, urging me on.

He’s looking for me. I know he is. And I’ll keep running until he finds me.

I push harder, faster. Fear nips at my heels, but adrenaline pushes me forward. I think of Wren, of his dark eyes, the way he looks at me like I’m fire and he can’t help but reach for me.

He’s changed me. I can’t pretend otherwise. I don’t want to pretend otherwise, because I'm done being what people expect. Done being invisible because someone else decided I should be. Done being anything except what I choose.

My legs ache, muscles burning as I run through alleys and side streets. Every shadow feels like both a threat and an ally. I imagine eyes everywhere, the sense of being hunted tightening like a noose around my throat, but I force myself to focus.

A figure looms ahead, just another stranger, but my instincts send me into a narrow passageway, barely wide enough for me to squeeze through. My breath catches, panic waiting at the edges of my mind. But I can’t stop. I won’t stop.

The streets flash past me as I move—faster, always faster. I know they’ll follow. I know they’ll try to drag me back. But I’ve made my choice.

I’ve picked fire. I’ve picked freedom.