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is urgent and close. I turn around and catch his eye, then push my way onto the East Bay–bound train. People give me a wide berth, and I feel someone touching my hand. I gasp and look down—but it’s only an older woman sitting near the doors. “You okay, honey?” I nod wordlessly, eyes trained on the platform. Amelia and Jared dash into a car two down from mine.
    “The doors are closing. Please stand clear,” says the conductor.
    That’s my cue. I spring into action.
    The rumble and horn of an approaching train—heading in the opposite direction—are the only sounds I hear. I dart out of the car just before the doors close and dodge across the platform, sidestepping people and slipping toward the front of the crowd as the San Francisco–bound airport train opens its doors with a sigh. Pinned by the window, I turn and look behind me, where the East Bay train has yet to depart. Jared and Amelia are still on the other train, scanning the crowd.
    Amelia’s eyes lock with mine. I’ve been seen. It doesn’t matter. Their train is already chugging to life and sliding out of the station. They’ll be stuck on it for the long ride under the bay, between the Embarcadero and West Oakland stations, giving me a good twenty-minute head start if they decide to come back after me.
    I ride for only two stops and exit with the crush of people at Powell Street. No doubt Jared and Amelia will think I’m headed deeper into the city, toward the airport. But when Cyrus wakes up, he’ll find my note and realize I haven’t boarded any planes.
    The rush of adrenaline has worn off, and I’m exhausted. But still, I am free to follow this night’s course of action to its dark finish. The wind has stopped, allowing the fog to settle thickly over the neighborhood. It turns city blocks into something more private, like small, silent rooms. Through the haze the fractured beam of a streetlight glints off a metal surface. I squint—it’s the car. I had kept it hidden near our apartment and driven it over earlier today. Two soggy parking tickets are plastered to the windshield, but I say a prayer of thanks that it hasn’t been towed.
    I bought the dusty old Ford off Craigslist a few weeks earlier. I gave the seller a fake name and paid his price without complaint, though I knew it was high, handing over an envelope filled with cash. I’d been saving money bit by bit for years—ten dollars here, twenty there—small enough amounts that Cyrus would never notice. I didn’t even start saving it consciously—it was more instinctual. One day after buying a coffee I slipped the change into the book I was reading, then told Cyrus the cashier must have shorted me. It gave me a small thrill to disobey him, to finally have something that was mine.
    I reach into the bodice of my dress and unpin the key I’d affixed to my bra strap. In the trunk I find my getaway bag—it holds a change of clothes, Cyrus’s book, and the rest of my emergency money. I’m going to drive down to Big Sur tonight. I want to be among the redwoods and waterfalls when I die.
    I tug on my jeans and sweater, dropping my soiled dress in the trunk and slipping my bruised feet into a pair of sneakers. My hands shake as I slide into the driver’s seat and press the key into the ignition. The throbbing in my temples and the blue hue of my fingers tell me I may not make it to Big Sur. But I have to try.
    The engine starts and I pull out into traffic, heading toward the bridge. I shake my head with disbelief—after six hundred years with Cyrus, I am finally free. I will never again, I promise myself, kill an innocent. I press harder on the accelerator as the car rumbles onto the bridge, leaving San Francisco—and my past—far behind.

six
     
    I drive with the windows wide open, drinking in the world and fresh air while I still have time. The pavement thrums under the wheels, carrying me forward, and I feel a flush of excitement. I know it’s morbid, but death is