“Elise?” I said, still nervous about upsetting her, but we were now pushing one hundred. “Slow down.” She didn’t answer. “Please slow down.” I touched her lightly on the shoulder and she flinched, jolting back to reality. Finally, she let up on the gas and the roar of the engine died down as we cruised along the highway.

“I should’ve waited, then he’d be gone,” Elise said, every word dripping with hatred.

I was confused. He was already gone, living in Chattanooga.

“Permanently.”

I stared at her. She was electric, her hair wild, her eyes dangerous. I didn’t dare ask again what she’d meant. All I could think about was that line from Kill Bill: “I roared and I rampaged and I got bloody satisfaction.”

“You know what else I learned?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “In the face of total destruction, you can either spend the rest of your life trying to put the pieces back together and failing, or you can burn it all down to the ground and become brand-new.”

A phoenix rising from its ashes.

53.

We stopped for gas right outside of Chattanooga’s city limits. The night had cooled significantly and Elise pulled down the top. After she bought food and cigarettes from the convenience store, we drove down the street to an empty strip-mall parking lot. We camped out in the Pink Caddy, eating honey buns and sipping Diet Cokes. We were both quiet, but for different reasons. Elise seemed to be getting keyed up, a look of determination hardening on her face. I was shell-shocked, still trying to process what she’d told me, and for the first time since we started driving, I acknowledged I was way out of my depth.

After we were done, Elise gathered up all the trash, and when she went to toss it, I searched through her bag for cigarettes.

I felt cold, hard metal, but it wasn’t the cigarette case I’d given her for her birthday.

“What are you doing?” she said, coming up to the driver’s side.

I pulled out the gun by the handle, pinching it gingerly. It was heavy and gleaming in the moonlight. We both stared at it in shock.

“What were you doing going through my stuff?” Elise snatched it out of my hand and shoved it back into her messenger bag.

“I wasn’t!” I couldn’t believe that was what she was mad about.

“That’s not what I saw,” she said.

“I was looking for the cigarettes.” I held my hands up in surrender.

She glared at me, tossing her bag onto the back seat before starting the car.

“Elise?”

No answer.

“Why do you have your grandfather’s gun on you?” I asked as we waited at the stoplight for the on-ramp to the highway. I’d finally recovered from my initial shock. “Do you always have it on you?” It terrified me, the thought that she carried it everywhere she went—everywhere we went.

“You shouldn’t go through other people’s stuff!” The light turned green and she hit the gas.