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The road curves like a ribbon through the dark. Headlights slice through the fog in thin beams. I keep one hand steady on the wheel while the other rests lightly on the gear shift. It’s quiet out here; quiet enough to hear the hum of the tires, the breath of the engine, and the rattle from the backseat. I should have fixed that days ago.
The sky is a bruised purple, and the highway is empty, save for my reflection in the front-windshield glass. As I drive, the air freshener sways from the mirror- pine scent.
I pass the sign for the old quarry- ten more miles to go.
It’s funny how easily the mind remembers directions. I haven’t taken this route in seemingly ages, but every bend feels familiar; under the narrow bridge, the turn after the fork in the road, and past the stretch where the asphalt cracks. I know it all. I could probably drive through it blindfolded.
—
The fluorescent lights of a small gas station glows up ahead. The lights from the sign look sickly against the dark. I pull into a spot and the tires crunch on the gravel. I get out of the car and go inside. The man behind the glass barely glances up when I enter.
“Early start?” he asks with a tiredness in his voice.
“I couldn’t rest,” I reply. “Thought I’d get some fresh air.”
He nods uninterested as I grab a bag of chips off of a rack. I always have cash on me. Before leaving, I go into my car, open the glove compartment, and wipe my hands with some old napkins. A faint smudge clings to my wrist. The napkin takes care of it as I toss it in a trashcan outside. Before I know it, I’m back on the road.
—
Some time passes; I crack the window to let some cool air in. The sun is still hiding behind the horizon. I rehearse the rest of the route in my head; down County Road 9, past the quarry, make a left at the fence with the bullet holes, and stop when the ground dips. The earth is soft this time of year- it always has been.
I pull off onto the dirt path, and the tires slip in the mud. I take it slow as the engine idles and I kill the lights. Silence folds around me. The ground smells damp and heavy.
I go around to the backseat, retrieve a shovel, and step out. The soil gives easily as I start digging. The rhythm is comforting.
I let my mind wander as I think of the family get-together that happened recently. Then I think about her: Marissa, my sister-in-law. She’s always been perfect. Her voice still lingers in my head, scolding me for small mistakes, smirking at what she thought was my incompetence. That dinner at my family’s house. We had a fight, a big one; I blew up at her, but I don’t regret it at all. I told myself the fight didn’t matter. But it did- It mattered to me.
—
As I finish digging the hole, I press the dirt flat with my boots. I step back and look at my surroundings, trying to remember if I forgot anything. I conclude my monthly ritual and get back in my car.
The drive back feels lighter now. I roll the window down again as dawn starts to break, faint gray spills over the tops of the trees. I hum along with the engine as I make my merry way.
Then the flash of red and blue fills the rear mirror. I blink and ease my foot off the gas. The cruiser behind me blinks its lights twice, so I calmly pull over. Everything’s fine, I haven’t done anything wrong- at least, not tonight.
The officer approaches with his hand resting casually on his holster. He looks young and polite. Probably a rookie.
“Morning,” he says. “Mind telling me where you’re headed?”
“Just heading home,” I reply in a calm tone. “It’s been a long night.”
He nods with understanding, shines his flashlight briefly into the backseat, then gestures for my ID. “Can I see your license, sir?”
I hand it over, my fingers steady. The officer’s flashlight trembles slightly as he reads. Then it stops. The silence lasts too long.
“Sir,” he says quietly, “Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?”
Something in his tone changed. I open the door, and the cold air rushes in. He’s already calling something into his radio. Another cruiser appears at the end of the road, but with its lights off.
“Hands where I can see them,” he commands. His hand is now on his holster.
I raise my hands. Alright, I guess we’re doing this. “What’s this about, officer?”
He doesn’t answer. The radio on his shoulder crackles indiscernibly with words I can’t make out. “Repeat,” the dispatcher says. “Confirmed match- Joshua Hensley; wanted in connection with multiple homicides across…”
—
The rest of the talking blurs into static. The officer steps back slightly, gun drawn but held low. “Turn around, Mr. Hensley. Place your hands on the vehicle.” For a moment, I almost laugh. It’s strange hearing that name out loud. It feels like it belongs to someone else entirely.
The cuffs feel cold around my wrists. Behind us, another officer approaches. I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead. The pale strip of dawn begins to cut through the fog.
The younger cop from before reads me my rights in a steady voice. When he’s done, he looks at me as if he wants to ask ‘why.’ They always want to ask why. But there isn’t a why that fits into words.
They guide me into the back of the cruiser, and the door shuts with a soft thud. As we pull away, the headlights catch onto the trees and the clearing. Inside the car, the air smells faintly of pine as we drive away.