Page 139 of Runaways

"He doesn't love me back," she says. "He doesn't want me, and I'm going to be alone again, aren't I?"

I can't even say it. I can't bring myself to tell her I lied to her. I lie all the fucking time. I'm good at it, too; I always thought it was funny. I mean, fuck, my entire existence depends on lies now.

But I've never lied to Noah.

"I think he does love you, Noah," I tell her, but I'm less certain than I was a few minutes ago. "But he's not good for you anymore. He's too…" Stubborn no longer feels like the right word. Selfish doesn't quite fit, either. Is there a word for someone who would gladly burn everything they care about to the ground and tear themself apart in the process just so they can say they were right until they die?

Maybe it's that other word—the one I hate.

"He did something to you." Noah looks up, but says nothing. She just looks at me and waits. "You remember the finger?"

She nods, and I continue. I tell her about the man we killed in the woods, and that Tate framed her for his murder. I wait for her to freak out—to scream or cry, to punch me in the face or storm back into the room and try to stab Tate with something else, but she doesn't. All the color drains from her face, and she just sits there. When I finish talking, she looks away from me, her vacant stare fixed on the forest in the distance.

"But…you'll be okay," I tell her. I hand her the plastic bag with the new IDs I made for her. "You can take these and leave tonight before they can get to you, and you'll be fine."

"How?" she asks, her dull tone barely above a whisper. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Just do whatever you did before."

"You don't want to go with me."

It's a statement, not a question.

"It's not that I don't want to be with you. I love you. You know I love you." She scoffs, but I continue. "Noah, if I went with you, he wouldn't leave you alone. And he needs me more.You and I…we're good alone. He's not—he'll get himself killed. He'd get us all caught."

She drops her head to her knees and sniffles, and it tears me apart. "You're wrong. I'm not good alone. I need you."

"You did good here. You can go somewhere else, and with those IDs, you'll be able to get a job and a bank account. You can find someone nice, like that guy from the car repair shop or that girl from the café, and be happy."

"But I'll have to lie to them."

"That doesn't matter, Noah. You could have a normal life. You could be a mom if you wanted."

"I can't do any of those things. I don't even think I want to try."

"Yes, you can. Here." There's a pen in the bag I gave her; I remove it, take her by the hand, and then I push the sleeve of the hoodie to her elbow and begin writing. "When you get to a good spot, send an email to this address. Use the name on the ID, and I'll know that it's you. I'll send you enough money to get you through for a while, and he won't even know. But you need to leave tonight, okay? Go home, pack a bag, and get the fuck out of here. Don't take your phone."

Still, she says nothing. She doesn't move. Did she not hear me? She has to move.

"Come on," I say, pulling her to her feet. The bag with the IDs in it falls to the ground, and I bend down, pick it up, and stuff it into the front pocket of the hoodie. "Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No, I'm fine," she says. "I'll just go."

Noah turns to leave, and I stop her. "Well, wait," I say, pulling her into my chest. She doesn't hug me back, her arms hanging limp and heavy at her sides, but that's okay. I don't really blame her.

"I love you, Silas," she says.

"I love you, too. I'm so sorry, Noah. He'll leave you alone this time. I promise."

She pulls away as I kiss the top of her head, my own eyes watering.

"Tell Tate that…" She trails off, and then says, "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

I watch her walk away, fighting the urge to chase after her and make it worse. She moves so slowly—maybe it's just in my head because I'm panicking, but it's like she has to talk herself into taking each step before she can do it.

Once she disappears around the front of the building, turning toward home, I head back inside.

"You told her, didn't you?" Tate asks. "You're a fucking—"

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