The Route I Hid

The hardest part was watching the collectors separate the evidence. Anyone else might call that a clean victory. I kept counting who held which packet and whether anyone looked uncomfortable enough to betray the others. I was not protecting truth. I was ranking risks in expensive suits.

Baek’s lawyer sounded so pleased with himself. He wants every account frozen, and suddenly my independence feels less like courage than a bill waiting to arrive. I can endure being called a criminal. I cannot endure being declared too inconvenient to own a bank account. My grandfather would have laughed at that, then told me the clever solution involved mud and a shovel.

I left the hotel among Halloween strangers hiding behind masks. For one minute, I wanted to be one of them: nobody’s quarry, nobody with a notebook under her coat, nobody carrying a route that may only be guilt dressed as ambition. Then I wanted that to be real more than I wanted anyone to recognize me. Both wants are ugly. I did not write them down until now.

The notebook’s seam is still perfect. That small fact should not comfort me as much as it does. I keep touching it because paper cannot become leverage over me unless I let it. Tonight it is merely proof that I got something away from Baek.

I did not mark the route’s final point. I want to call that caution, but some nights it feels like cowardice with better lighting. If I mark it, I decide to go back. If I go back, I prove I cannot leave the old life alone. Perhaps that is why my hand stops.