The car didn't slow.
It couldn't.
Not now.
Not after that.
Cynthia's hands trembled in her lap. Her ears still rang from the gunshots. Every sound felt wrong—too loud, too close, too sharp.
"Mom…" her voice cracked.
"Where are we going?"
Her mother didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes stayed locked on the road.
Sharp.
Alert.
Reading everything.
"We stay off the main roads," she said finally.
"They are tracking movement."
Cynthia swallowed hard.
"That means… they can still find us?"
A beat.
"Yes."
The truth hit harder than the fear.
Silence filled the car again. Thick. Heavy.
"…we were going to the police," Cynthia whispered.
"We still are," her mother replied.
"Just not directly."
Cynthia frowned.
Confused.
"We go home first," her mother continued.
"Secure ourselves. Then the police come to us."
She reached for her phone—dialing fast.
"This is an emergency," she said the second the line connected.
