Page 51 of Rest In Peace

Adam's gaze fell upon the nightstand again, where his gun lay hidden. He had tucked it there, always within reach. Now, its reality beckoned him with a grim necessity. With hands that betrayed a tremor, he reached for the weapon.

The metal was cold, an unforgiving chill that seeped into his bones. Adam's fingers wrapped around the grip, the familiar contour a grotesque comfort. He hesitated, the weight of the gun heavy in more ways than one.

"Damn it," he exhaled, a shuddering breath that carried his resolve.

The gun, once a symbol of protection, now felt like a harbinger of his downfall. Still, he slid it into the suitcase, nestling it between a pair of jeans and a shirt. It was a decision made from the instinct to survive, though every fiber of his being screamed in protest.

"Sorry," he whispered once more, a silent vow to the woman in the photograph as if the act of including the gun was another betrayal in itself.

The suitcase's teeth meshed in a hurried zip, finality ringing through the action. Adam's fingers were firm on the slider, his grip betraying none of the tremors that had shaken him just moments before. He hefted the bag, its weight grounding him to the present—this was real, this was happening.

"Okay, okay," he muttered, a mantra against the panic that threatened to claw its way up his throat.

He strode to the front door, the fabric of the suitcase handle digging into his palm. The police cars down the street were ominous shadows beneath the streetlights, their presence a silent accusation. His pulse hammered, a staccato rhythm syncing with the tick of the living room clock that used to belong to his mother.

"Come on; come on," he urged under his breath as if he could will away their prying eyes and suspicious minds.

Adam's hand found the doorknob, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth pooling at the base of his spine. He peeked through the curtains again, scanning for any movement or sign they knew he was there. The cruisers sat idle, their engines purring like dozing predators.

"Almost out," he whispered, a promise or perhaps a plea. His heart felt like it might burst through his ribs, a frantic bird caged by bone and sinew.

Every second was a thief, stealing time he didn't have. With a deep breath, he cracked open the door, ready to slip through the night's dark embrace.

The door eased shut behind Adam, a silent sentinel to his escape. Florida's night air clung to him, humid and heavy, an unspoken reminder of the world he was about to leave behind.

He didn't allow himself a backward glance; instead, his eyes darted from shadow to shadow, seeking any hint of movement, any glimmer that might betray an observer's presence. Nothing stirred except for the distant rustle of palm fronds in the gentle coastal breeze.

"Clear," he breathed, the word barely escaping his lips.

His feet moved before his mind fully caught up, propelling him with urgency down the path. He could almost feel the seconds slipping through his fingers, each one precious, each one possibly his last as a free man. The usually quiet street lay before him, houses bathed in the soft glow of porch lights, people watching the commotion from their porches or from behind curtains drawn against the late hour.

"Got to move; got to move," he chanted silently, his mantra now one of motion.

He reached the car, his heart racing, his hands trembling like leaves in a storm. The keys jingled loudly in the silence, the sound magnified to a cacophonous din in his ears. Fingers slick with sweat fumbled once… twice until they found the button. He willed his shaking hand steady, opening the lock with a click that felt like a gunshot in the stillness.

"Come on, come on," he urged, the door swinging open, a gateway to his fleeting chance at freedom. His frantic pace belied the cool exterior he attempted to project; every muscle tensed for flight, every sense alert for the whine of sirens or the shout of discovery.

But the night remained still, the street empty. For now, Adam was just a man, a suitcase, a car—and a hope that the road ahead could outrun the mistakes snapping at his heels.

Adam slumped into the driver's seat, his body a tangle of nerves. With hands that shook like he was in an earthquake, he stabbed the key into the ignition. The engine turned over with a rumble he felt sure could wake the dead—or worse, alert the cops. He held his breath, listening. One Mississippi… Two Mississippi… Silence. Relief was short-lived; it wouldn't last if he didn't move.

"Quiet. Stay quiet," he whispered to the car as if it had ears and cared about his predicament. His foot eased onto the gas pedal, the motion gentle, coaxing the vehicle into a soft purr as it rolled down the driveway.

The headlights cut through the darkness, twin beams dancing over familiar roads now turned foreign by fear. He squinted against the harshness, acutely aware of the vulnerability the light brought with it. Every shadow seemed a hiding spot, every rustling leaf a signal of pursuit.

"Easy, easy," he murmured, guiding the car with more care than he'd ever shown anything in his life.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching his pale reflection staring back—a ghost haunted by what-ifs and should-haves. Adam forced his gaze away, locking it on the road ahead. The street behind remained empty, a void where danger lurked unseen.

"Keep it together," he told himself. He couldn't afford the luxury of panic. Not now. Not when every second counted.

Adam's grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as he navigated through the labyrinth of his own making.

"How did it come to this?" The whisper tore from his lips, a plea for understanding from an audience that wasn't there. He flinched at every shadow, every flicker in his peripheral vision—a hunted animal too scared to acknowledge its own scent.

"Dammit, not like this." His voice broke, a jagged edge sawing through the thick tension in the car. The rearview mirror held his accusatory gaze; the man looking back was a stranger, a doppelganger wearing his fear like a second skin. "Nicki, I'm sorry," he choked out, the words a mantra against the chaos.

"Running is for cowards," he spat into the silence. But the echo that returned bore a different message: survival. Adam shook his head, trying to dislodge the truth that burrowed deep. "I am no coward," he insisted to the darkness that pressed against the windows. Yet with each mile marker he passed, the label seemed to stick, a post-it note on his conscience.

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