Six months passed before the city dared to exhale.
Six months of headlines, indictments, resignations. Six months of Nia watching her own story unravel from a distance, tucked away in a small Georgia town that smelled like diesel and honeysuckle.
Every morning she woke to the same routine: coffee gone cold, Tariq already gone, and the sound of her neighbor’s rooster that crowed like it hated peace.
Sometimes she forgot what quiet felt like before all this. Sometimes she thought Malik had taken it with him.
That morning, a black sedan rolled past the shop twice. Slow. Watching.
Nia saw it through the window, heart tightening like an old scar. She wiped her hands on a rag and reached under the counter for the revolver Tariq insisted she keep.
The sedan didn’t stop. Just turned the corner and disappeared.
She exhaled—but the tension stayed.
Minutes later, her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Miss me?
Her blood went ice-cold.
She didn’t reply. She just walked outside, scanning the road. Empty.
When she turned back toward the garage, Tariq was there—grease-stained shirt, tired eyes, gun on his hip.
“You saw it too?” she asked.
He nodded. “Atlanta’s cleaning house. Cas’s men are scattered. Some are hunting for whoever dropped that flash drive.”
Her stomach dropped. “So they think it’s me.”
Tariq rubbed the back of his neck. “They don’t think. They know.”
That night, they boarded up the back door and packed light.
“Where we going this time?” she asked.
“Somewhere with no Wi-Fi and too much forest,” he said. “Cas’s people don’t last long in the woods.”
“Neither do I,” she muttered, tossing clothes into a duffel. “You sure this isn’t just running?”
He gave her a look that landed somewhere between pity and love. “Running’s how people like us survive.”
She hated that he was right.
By midnight, they were halfway up a dirt road that looked like it hadn’t seen a car in a decade. Trees leaned over the headlights like eavesdroppers.
Nia stared out the window. “You ever think about him?”
“Every day,” Tariq said quietly. “But not the way you do. You’re still trying to forgive him. I’m still trying to forgive myself.”
She looked at him. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “I just made him believe he could survive anything.”
They reached a cabin that barely deserved the name—wood rotted, windows cracked, one working light. Inside smelled like rain and old firewood.
Tariq checked every corner, every creak. Nia dropped her bag and sat on the floor, head in her hands.
“I thought I’d feel clean,” she said softly. “After everything. I thought burning it all down would mean freedom.”
Tariq crouched beside her. “Freedom ain’t clean. It’s just quieter than guilt.”
Before she could answer, tires crunched outside.
Both of them froze.
Tariq mouthed, stay here.
He peeked through the curtain—and went still.
“What?” she whispered.
He turned back, face pale. “It’s him.”
She blinked. “Who—?”
Then the knock.
Three hard raps.
Her body remembered before her brain did.
Malik’s rhythm.
She shook her head. “No. That’s impossible.”
Tariq whispered, “Then open the door and prove it.”
She did.
And almost screamed.
Malik stood on the porch—thinner, colder, eyes ringed in shadows. The bullet scar peeking from his collar.
Alive.
“Told you I’d fix it,” he said.
Nia stumbled back. “You—how—?”
He stepped inside, dripping rain onto the floor. “Cas’s men thought they buried me. Turns out I don’t die that easy.”
Tariq aimed his gun. “You should’ve stayed dead.”
Malik smirked. “Family reunion, huh?”
“Cut the games,” Tariq growled. “What do you want?”
Malik looked at Nia. “What I always wanted. Her.”
Nia’s voice broke. “You left me to clean your blood off my hands.”
He took a slow step closer. “And you left me to rot while you played house with my cousin.”
“That’s not what this is,” she said, trembling.
He laughed softly. “Then what is it, baby? Penance? Protection? Pillow talk with guilt?”
Tariq’s hand tightened on the trigger. “You need to leave.”
Malik’s eyes flicked to him, then back to her. “You really trust him? The man who told Cas where I’d be that night?”
The words hit the room like shrapnel.
Nia froze. “What?”
Tariq’s voice was calm, too calm. “He’s lying.”
Malik smiled. “You think I don’t know betrayal when I see it? Cas never found me by luck. Tariq called him. Thought he’d scare me straight. Didn’t know Cas would shoot first.”
Nia looked between them, heart pounding. “Tariq?”
He dropped his gaze.
Silence.
Then Malik laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. “See? Devil’s mercy, baby. Everybody wants to save you until it costs them something.”
Outside, thunder cracked. Inside, everything burned colder than before.
Malik stepped back toward the door, dripping, smiling. “Now you know the truth. What you do with it—that’s on you.”
He disappeared into the storm before either of them moved.
Nia stood there, rain seeping through the open door, staring at Tariq.
“Tell me he’s lying.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again. “I just wanted it to end.”
She whispered, “So did I.”
Then she walked past him, into the rain, into whatever waited next.