Page 132 of The Devil of Downtown

I freeze. “Brody, why did you do that?”

He finally turns, and the look he gives me knocks the air out of my chest. It isn’t rage or wildness; it’s grief so dense it’s turning inward, collapsing in from the inside.

“We can end this now,” he murmurs. “Together. Before it gets worse.”

Then he grabs the keys from the cupholder and jumps into the driver’s seat.

“Brody—don’t.”

But he’s already shifting into drive.

The car jolts forward so suddenly I smack into the seat.

“BRODY! Stop!” I shout, grabbing the back of his seat. “What are you doing? Jennie’s still inside—she—she’ll panic!”

“She’s strong,” he croaks. “She’ll survive. I won’t.”

He floors the gas.

The tires shriek against the wet asphalt as we rocket out of the parking lot, the city outside dissolving into streaks of rain, headlights, and distorted reflections. The engine roars, the speedometer needle climbing faster than my brain can keep up with.

“Brody, slow down,” I plead, my voice shaking now. “Just talk to me. Please. We can turn back. We can figure this out together.”

He lets out a soft, broken laugh. “It’s too late for that, Ivy.”

“It’s not,” I insist. “I promise you it’s not.”

“You know, when I came back, Ivy, I thought maybe I could finally move on. Put everything behind me. But then he came into your life, and I knew it was over. The universe’s sick way of punishing me. I took away his happiness, so he got to keep mine. And the way he ripped you off me in Vice, the look in his eyes, I could see then that there was no way he was ever letting you go.”

Rain pounds the windshield; the wipers smearing more than cleaning. Streetlights flash by too fast, each one a blink of white.

“I can’t face what’s waiting for me,” he says, his grip tightening on the wheel. “You know what they’ll do to me.”

“Brody,” I whisper, fear curling into my throat, “please. You’re scaring me.”

“Just listen,” he says, a strange calm in his tone. “We could make it quick. Peaceful. Just...stop fighting it.”

A tremor shivers down my spine.

“No,” I say, voice cracking. “No, Brody, I don’t - please, I don’t want this.”

“You think I can survive prison?” His voice rises. “You think they won’t kill me in there?”

The car swerves violently, hydroplaning for a split second before he jerks the wheel back into control. My scream tears out of me before I can stop it.

“Okay,” I blurt, desperation flooding my words. “We don’t have to do anything right now. Just pull over, please. Let’s just stop and breathe.”

“There’s only one step left.”

The car surges forward as he floors it.

“Brody!” I cry out.

Buildings smudge. Horns blare. He weaves through lanes with a terrifying, deliberate clarity—like he’s made peace with something I haven’t.

“Please,” I say, my voice coming apart. “Think of Sloane and Elsie. They won’t recover if something happens to us. And Jennie loves you, Brody. She will break.”

The words hang between us, raw and exposed.