Characters: Travis Hackett, reader
Chosen ending: The were!Hacketts are dead, the counselors gang might as well have lived
Short summary: You were the extra counselor that summer, so you participated in the fun campy werewolf activities, and not without consequences. Silly something that jumped to my mind bc who wouldn't want Travis to track them down
Words count: 1081
Tags: @sadclowncat (I'm SO sorry for mistag earlier!!), @sera-wonderland, @b33barlowsstuff, @imperfectjam (also, tagging those who wanted something w/ our man Travis or Travis x reader, all future stuff will be at (# anna writes the quarry))
(the gif is just to show the character, it's not this exact scene, but the message seems right tho)
You took one look at the badge – and bolted. Within a split of a second some regret managed to sink through. You should’ve made a goddamn poker face, but now it was too late for that. Now you just had to run.
The cop reacted like any good cop should, by starting the chase. Unlike any good cop, he didn’t shout any warnings, he just straight-up sprinted behind you. Like a Terminator. Unsurprisingly, being the 1st film Sarah Connor sucked ass. Only she lived to see a second film, and then some. You might not have this luxury.
The cop tackled you near the window while you were trying to jerk it open.
‘Going somewhere, haunts&curses2573?’
Your whole body froze for a moment. He knew. His voice wasn’t smug, though, just edgy. Tired, even. The cop held you face down on the floor but seemed to try not to hurt you. You held your head up as best you could.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Are you gonna run if I let you go?’
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘Are you?!’
‘I know my rights, okay?!’ now you were really panicking. ‘I know my fucking rights!’
‘DO YOU WANNA TALK LIKE ADULTS OR DO I CUFF YOU TO A RADIATOR?!’
‘GET THE FUCK OFF ME!’
You heard a grunt, then some cursing under the breath.
‘Cuffs it is, then.’
You felt the metal on your skin, and next thing you knew, you were facing the room, with the cuff link gleefully clanking against the radiator pipe and the cop carefully moved to a safe, unkickable distance. That’s the first time you saw him properly. Not exactly young, with a shade of stubble on the cheeks and chin. Slightly tilting his head to the side. He squatted, keeping his eyes on your level. Something about his whole figure was just… unnerving.
‘Please,’ your throat was suddenly parched and the voice came out harsh, ‘please … I don’t know what you want from me, okay?’
A slight annoyed eye-roll followed.
‘Yeah, that’s why you ran. Uh-huh.’
‘I… I…’
‘Quit the damn tune, Y/L/N’ he cut you off, slightly pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve had an awful coupl’a months chasing you down, but unlike you, I can do my job right.’
You yanked the cuff slightly, not actually hoping for anything. And nothing happened. What a surprise. You yanked some more just out of spite.
‘Happy now?’ cold, calm voice didn’t match the appearance one bit, but perfectly matched the prying eyes. ‘Wanna do some more running?’
You shook your head, drawing your legs closer to yourself.
‘Good, ‘cause you’re gonna SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND LISTEN!’ you jerked and the sudden rise of the voice. The cop… really, he looked irritated. And irritated cops are never a good story. Terminator 2 covered that as well. ‘Am I clear?’
You nodded. He sighed sympathetically.
‘Look, kid. My name is Travis Hackett,’ a meaningful pause. ‘Like the Hackett’s Quarry.’
And then it came together. Of course. Of-fucking-course. He was studying you, as if making sure you won’t suddenly decide to chew your arm off and run. You had half a heart to do just that.
‘…shit,’ that was all you could say. Not very eloquent, but very true.
‘Exactly,’ the cop nodded generously. ‘You’ve fucked up big time.’
‘I didn’t do any-’
‘Ah,’ he stopped you with a motion of his hand. ‘I suggest you shut up and really don’t piss me off now, because I really don’t wanna take out my gun. Especially, since it’s loaded with silver.’
Bastard knew it right away, from your eyes. Read your face like a note on the fridge. The uneasy tug pulled in your stomach. You were fucked. Absolutely fucked in a totally non-unfuckable goddamn way, but the stupid kid inside you still tried to wiggle their way out.
‘W-what does silver hav--’
‘Did I not just say to NOT PISS ME OFF?!’
That’s what, a third strike? Thoughts ran around your brain in a sort of dancing fever. There was no way out for you. The only way was through, and it could just be that on the other side of the tunnel you’d be met by a silver bullet. Not on the full moon, but still… The Hackett cop seemed to have calmed down a notch. His brother, you remembered. His brother and the kids. They died that night. It’s a wonder the silver bullet didn’t come first. You suddenly felt really cold.
‘What do you want?’ you asked flatly. Trevor Hackett, or whatever his name was, was kind of staring you down. Full-on drama.
‘You figured it out, didn’t you, Y/N? When the moon came and you turned, you figured it out,’ he gave you a moment to chime in, and when you didn’t, finished darkly with a disapproving shake of the head. ‘The White Wolf is still alive. So you went and sent all those trinkets you found out there to that goddamn podcast, didn’t you? What were you hoping for? A crowd of werewolf-hunters who’d put him down for you?’
He was surprisingly accurate, that Trampy-whatever. Travis, it struck you, the name was Travis. Probably should remember that for later, if that later ever comes. It didn’t really seem like it, though.
‘That… was the plan, yeah,’ you mumbled awkwardly.
‘Well, congrats, mastermind. You created a fucking pilgrim path for every dumbass who ever wanted to snoop around and smell werewolf shit.’
His voice was dripping with sarcasm. A bit more, and the floor beneath would be a goner, burnt right down to the basement. That would’ve been fucking hilarious, only it wasn’t anywhere near funny.
‘Do you want to see the body count? Maybe the local town reports on rabid dogs? Hmm?’
‘Alright, I get it, I fucked up,’ you snarked, not being able to take the blame-pushing anymore. ‘So what, you dragged your ass out here to shoot me? Cover for your fucked-up family once again? What the fuck do you want?’
The cop’s face changed. You didn’t understand how, exactly. It took you a few moments to catch up, but you got it just as he finished saying that next words. Then it beamed on you. He didn’t look angry anymore. He seemed regretful. As if he was sorry for something he was about to do.
‘Full moon’s in 10 days. I’m sorry, kid. I’m really sorry, but I’m gonna need your help to end this.’
Characters: Travis Hackett
Chosen ending: The Hacketts are all dead except Travis, Laura survives
Short summary: Travis is trying to cope with the trauma of losing his family as best he can (which is not good at all). At the same time, unsigned postcards start to arrive.
Words count: 2595 (trauma, healing)
Tags: @b33barlowsstuff, @imperfectjam, @sera-wonderland, @strawberryoverkill, @hrefna-the-raven (tagging my Travis squad, though it's ok if this one's not to your liking)
(I don't pretend to write master psychology or trauma, so I'm sorry if you hate it, but a Travis!meta thought wrote itself into a fic, plus I'm still on my Travis x Laura enemies-to-slightly-less-enemies-with-connection bullshit, oops)
September, 26
This feels stupid.
(no date)
fix the fence
buy coffee
start those quarterly reports !
check podcast nothing new
(no date)
No, I know, it ain't it. I'll try tomorrow.
Can't think of anything worth saying.
October, 6
Here's the thing. Chris used to keep a journal. He said it helped, and I owe it to him to try. Just gotta write whatever's on my mind or stuff that happened. So. Drank a beer. Took another patrol shift. Way behind on the quarterlies, really gotta start on them now. What else?
God, what a load of crap.
Chris is dead.
Bobby's dead.
Caleb's dead.
Kaylee's dead.
Dad's dead.
That's what's on my fucking mind.
October, 7
Ma is dead.
There, I wrote it. Feels good. Not that she's I don't mean fuck
October, 19
Full moon yesterday.
Didn't know what else to do, so I started packing.
Unpacked around dawn. I don’t need silver bullets anymore.
October, 27
A postcard came from NY. Weird. Nothing but the sender's address. Threw it out.
October, 31
Fucking habits.
I was patrolling, and drove to the camp site. Didn't mean to, just sort of ended up here. Sat in the car like an idiot looking at the windows. Usually, one would be lit. I'd get out, come in, we'd crack a couple of cold ones. I can’t bring myself to //
A bunch of kids just tried to break in on camp's grounds. I think they were looking for a place to get wasted on a Halloween night, which I completely forgot about. One of them was dressed as a werewolf and kept howling. For a moment, I thought Anyway. Scaring the shit out of them felt good. Shouting, too. Disrespectful assholes didn't have any right to be here. Not here.
PS. Almost called Chris to tell the story and have a good laugh.
November, 14
Sent in the quarterly reports last week. WAY overdue. Things kind of lose their importance, even I know it’s not a good sign. Everything that happens swooshes right through my brain, in and out, like a bullet. Maybe a bullet is what I need
That last part came out of nowhere. I'm not really thinking it. I mean I wasn't, but now that I wrote it, I obviously am. Shit! This whole journal thing is fucking my brain up. Great advice, C. Real nice. It should be helping, not making more mess. How am I supposed to figure it out?
No, fuck that. Ma raised us better than self-pity.
But then, Ma also raised us to protect the family.
November, 19
Full moon. I still measure time by calendar marks. Three moons ago they were all alive.
December, 18
Full moon.
December, 26
Another postcard came. Obnoxious Christmassy stuff, with one snowman sneezing the carrot out and another dodging it and shouting 'I'm okay!' Nothing more, nothing less. Someone must have screwed up the address. This had better stop.
Anyway, this past month. Nothing much to say, I was clearing out the house. Couldn't be there with all of the rooms untouched, so. Yeah. That's it. Done the job.
(later) No, I shouldn't lie, should I? What's even the point.
It smells empty now, the house. Desolate. Like a place where people haven't lived for a long time, even though I've literally been there. I can't seem to fill it up on my own. I'm not enough.
Many things there. Memories. Found Bobby's old book about horses. He fucking loved horses, that kid. Couldn't remember where he put his shoes but recited dozens of breeds by heart. He dreamt we'd turn the house into a ranch. It was that one year when our folks shut the Quarry down cause Bobby was getting bigger, and more and more different, and he needed more attention instead of less. He was obsessed with the idea for months, driving Ma insane. Chris finally had to step in and say, 'Hey, I'll do you one better. We'll reopen the camp, and you'll have lots of kids to play with, how's that?' Bobby almost shat his pants with happiness. Poor lonely kid. I was too grown-up and off to college, and Chris was too… I don’t want to say normal, but maybe he was. He had his own friends. Bobby was with Ma most of the time and Ma was… well, she was Ma. Out of us three, Chris was the only one who had his special way with her. So they decided to reopen. I don't know if Bobby ever remembered the ranch idea again because I think, from then on, he slept and saw himself with a bunch of kids playing together on the camp's grounds.
Spent half an hour on the floor with that goddamn book, nearly crying. We should have got the fucking horses.
January, 17
Full moon. Don't know why I keep doing that.
January, 27
Moved into the station a couple of weeks ago. With all that space in the house, there's just too much, well, space. I'm used to having a big family, that’s the thing. Another habit. Anyone who grew up with one would know, it sinks it teeth in and doesn't let go.
Even C. and I, we went away for college only to come back home. I think, by then it had already been late. That's how Ma rasied us, always keep close to your family and care for it as best you can. We learned it with Bobby, and then with Chris's kids when they came along. We had been a wolf pack long before half of us turned into wolves. The house is cracked in the corners and crooked all over, and we were, too, with our issues and complicated relationships. It was never simple. At least, I knew who I was when I was there. A son, an elder brother, an uncle, lots and lots of strings upon strings. I don't really know who I am now. A survivor, I guess. I survived my family. Any one of us would say that's worth a gold fucking medal.
February, 3
Apparently, in order for it to help, it's supposed to hurt. Catharsis.
Don't have much time to write, but I got on one of those websites for people who lost someone. There are therapists there, too, so you can talk to them if you need to.
Long story short, after a few false-starts, I found Doc Morgan. She was okay. Talked to me for a while about loss, about myself, too. How I’m eating, how I’m sleeping, agitations, fixations. There was, surprisingly, a lot to say. That’s when the catharsis thing came up, I was talking about how Chris was writing and I was trying, too, but it wasn’t working. Then she started asking questions about my family and how I lost them, when it happened (this I could answer) and how (this I couldn't), so I had to drop it.
Before that, she also said I 'harbor a lot of guilt'. No shit, Doc. I wish there was someone to talk about it with. Someone who knew the truth.
Catharsis, huh? Shit.
March, 8
Thirty-five years on the force, and that’s the first time it happens. Got shot on the job. Nothing deadly, a bullet in the arm. Had to wear a cast for a month, so writing is more of an exercise now. Some punk was trying to rob the petrol station, things went south, and I got a bullet, that’s it. Guess hunting werewolves makes you cocky enough to underestimate an ordinary dick with a gun.
Anyway, the whole thing blew out of proportion, and I got handed an award and got my picture taken. Sweet fucking Jesus. I bet they knew there’s no other fool who’d agree to patrol this god-forsaken piece of land, so they were sucking up like hell.
Two new postcards came. This is getting annoying. Haven’t had a look yet, just noticed them in the mail box.
February 16 was the full moon. Still restless.
March, 9
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.
The postcards. Almost forgot about them again, but went to take a look.
One looks kind of vintage, with two dogs sharing a bone and the ‘I don’t have a bone to pick with you’ phrase in a heinous font. The other is a goddamn get-well card sent by post.
I looked the address up, should have done that long ago (some cop!). It’s a dorm address, for the NYS College of Veterinary Medicine at Cornell University. A vet college.
I don’t know if I’m tired or pissed. Both. Pissed, more. Who does she think she is sending me postcards? Why? Is this a joke, does she think we’re friends? Why would I ever want to hear from her? What in hell are those writings? Got a hold of the previous card, the Christmas one. ‘I’m okay’. And now, ‘I don’t have a bone to pick with you’. God, and the get-well one, too. She must have checked the local papers to see that article. The sheer ARROGANCE. Should have left her right there in that basement with Chris.
(later) Got so wound up that I drove to the nearest post office. Picked the one white card there, the one you’re supposed to draw on to make it personal. Left it blank, wrote STOP IT on the back, and sent right away. This has got to end.
March, 18
Full moon.
Up all night again. This, too, has got to end.
March, 26
Went patrolling again and drove to the Quarry by the end of the shift. There’s nothing horrifying on uneasy about it in morning light, just a bunch of wooden cabins with sun shining on the surface of the lake. Almost peaceful. Walked around for a while there, thinking. You’d never guess how close to the earth lie the dark secrets hidden all around.
I don’t know what to do with it. The main cottage is ruined, and I don’t exactly have the time or money to repair it. Even if I did, I certainly can’t run it on my own. Chris knew his way around, he loved it. Really, loved it. Spent hours designing improvement plans, or getting the best deals for food delivery, or talking with kids. He was a natural. I’m no Chris. I can’t really fill his shoes, never could.
I’ll probably have to shut it down or resell. The thought doesn’t sit right. I’m on the verge of the right, reasonable decision but can’t make it for the life of me. It’s all wrong.
April, 4
A postcard came. Of course. I guess I felt it in my guts that it would.
A profound-quote kind this time, the type that’s used for aesthetics, not for actual posting.
Stood by the mail box for a good minute. I think I understand now.
Catharsis.
April, 13
It’s time now, makes no sense to postpone it any longer. In order for it to help, it’s supposed to hurt.
I have always, all my life, tried to be a good person. Do the right thing, make the right decisions. I am a police officer, for God’s sake, have been for thirty-five years. I swore to protect people. But Ma also raised us to protect the family. What does one do when being a good person contradicts being a good brother, a good son?
I harbor a lot of guilt, Doc Morgan said. Damn right, I do. Good people, innocent people died, because I made a choice. All it takes is one broken oath, because once you break it, there’s no going back. There’s no clear path, nowhere to put your loyalty. All you can do is keep going, further and further into the woods. And along that road, there’s always a choice. People you don’t know, whom you’d sworn to protect, or your family, whom you love. Who do you protect? Whose life do you save? They don’t have answers in the police academy. It’s like that ethical problem where you’re riding a trolley without any sort of brakes, and if you keep on your track, you’ll kill a bunch of people, but if you make a choice to pull the lever and switch the trolley to another track, you’ll only kill one. They say the answer is often ‘don’t switch, don’t take that responsibility, let it ride’. Here’s where the catch comes in. What if those people are your family? One stranger seems like a reasonable enough sacrifice to save the ones you love. Here’s another catch. What if this situation comes up over, and over, and over again? And what if you pull the lever so many times that the pile of bodies grows out of control? Does a good person still do it? Does a good son?
He does, it turns out, because no one ever says: enough. Not one damn person. Dad didn’t say it, Ma certainly never did, not even Chris. The good son, the golden son. I can’t hold it against him, really, we all loved him. He was the kind of person who made everything better simply by showing up with his broad smile and stupid jokes. It just so happened, that the choice was mine, and there were always switches, and Chris was always on the tracks. His children, too. Ultimately, all of us. And once I stopped making that damn choice, the trolley rode right through.
‘Guilt is a ravenous creature,’ that’s what it said, on the postcard. It is, indeed. It’s the never-ending tear between ‘what if I never pulled the lever’ and ‘what if I pulled it just one more time’. It’s people you swore to protect but didn’t, and family you were raised to protect but didn’t. The guilt of not being a good person and not being a good son.
I’ve split myself over it so much I can hardly feel the halves, so I’m saying: enough. I’ve done enough. I’d loved them and protected them as best I could but the truth is, the most important choice is to stop sitting in a crashed trolley contemplating your choices. One person with a rope can’t pull everyone else back from the well. At some point, you’ve got to decide to cut the rope. I’m doing just that. I’ve spent enough time being a good brother and son. Maybe I can try being a good person again now.
April, 14
Went to send a postcard. I don’t know what she’s gonna make of it and if she understands at all. The whole thing is just too hard to explain. Catharsis.
For a second, I even thought of tearing out the last entry and sending it as a letter, but shit, the drama. So I went to the camp and took one of the Quarry postcards instead, from the souvenirs stand. Didn’t know what to write. Then just wrote THANK YOU. Maybe it helps her guilt, too, the one that’s been making her send those cards.
I hope so. God, I hope she understands.
April, 17
Full moon yesterday.
Slept through it.
May, 1
The answer came.
LIKEWISE.
She did understand.
//
//
//
P.S.
July, 7
I didn’t plan on writing anything else, but then another card came. A happy-birthday card, an absolutely idiotic one, with printed cake, and candles, and confetti.
I’m not even gonna ask how the hell she knew.
But then again, I could always send a postcard and find out.
Charasters: Laura Kearney, Travis Hackett (non-romance)
Chosen ending: everyone dies, except Laura, Travis, and Max
Short summary: Laura and Travis in the aftermath of the blood bath occurred at the Hackett's Quarry camp, because I'm a sucker for enemies-to-cautious-slightly-less-enemies trope :)
Words count: 1242
Tags: @katnisspeetaprim, @imperfectjam, @b33barlowsstuff (you awesome people asked for a tag, so here we are! If you'd like to, I can tag you in future posts, but I'll also tag quarry works as (# anna writes the quarry))
(I also have to warn you that english isn't my first language, so... yeah)
(the gif is just to show the characters, it's not this exact scene)
The camp fell silent for the first time since the sundown. It wasn’t an easy silence, though. It had some strange finality to it that gritted on the teeth, and the shivers were dancing all over the sweaty skin. Overall, it felt… well, nauseating. Like that last drink before you black out at a party. Some fucking party.
‘Is this… is this everyone?’
‘How the damn hell should I know?’
Laura glanced over to find the cop scrutinizing the bodies. Some they found within the camp premises, others they had to drag. Wasn’t pretty. No, sir, it wasn’t.
‘I only met like four of them’, she said gulping down a huge lump in her throat.
‘Care to identify the ones you know?’
‘Will it help if I do?’
‘Not really’, the man shrugged, his face wincing for a moment. ‘They’re still going to the lake.’
That flat tone. That mother-hollering flat tone he had. It almost made Laura feel angry again. It almost made her feel again, period.
‘Fuck you, man’, she spit out walking up to him. Travis Hackett, the goddamn ultimate Hacketteer. She pushed him, half-heartedly. The cop swayed, barely even looking at her. She pushed again, harder. Torn uniform, scratches, splashes of blood all over his face. His eyes locked on hers for a second, but he didn’t say a word. She wanted him to. Maybe if he did, she’d feel something, anything, anything but death all around. She pushed again.
‘You don’t wanna do this’.
‘I fucking do’.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I fucking do!’ she kept pushing harder and harder, her voice getting higher and higher. He didn’t even protest, just stood there with his eyes wearily closed, swaying, making half-steps back. ‘I FUCKING DO, YOU SON OF A BITCH!’
That last push became a punch against his shoulders, with both of her hands, and somehow took all her strength. Laura stopped, gasping for air. The smell of dried blood hang heavily in the air. She quivered at its familiarity.
‘You done?’ Travis opened his eyes, locking her into place. A shadow of a frown on his forehead. With a gesture close to a comic one he set his sheriff badge straight on his shredded shirt. And with that simple gesture, he suddenly looked unsure. Lost, just like her.
‘Yeah, I’m done’, Laura grumbled, stepping back. ‘I’m so done with you’.
‘Good.’
‘Eat shit.’
She slumped on the grass, looking at the heap of bodies with glassy eyes. Kids. They were all just kids. She was a kid, too, a stupid kid who didn’t think anything could touch her. Look where that got them.
‘What, no nickname?’
The cop sat down beside her, moving slowly, as if every muscle of his body was sore. She bet it was.
‘Eat shit, Officer Fuck-itt’, she retorted without missing a beat.
‘There you go’, he smirked. Laura snorted. It was the absurdity, it must have been. The absurdity of sitting next to her kidnapper-slash-prison-guard whose werewolf brother didn’t check his voice mail that one time, and now here they were, in a summer camp full of dead bodies. A sudden thought pulled her insides.
‘Are you gonna let me go?’
Travis fell silent for a moment. She heard him sigh, then suck on his tooth with an audible tssk!
‘You killed my family.’
‘Your family killed, like, a whole bunch of camp counselors. Are we really comparing the body count?’
He gave out a muffled laugh. It was so fucking bizarre to hear that man laugh. She thought all he could do was stare, grit his teeth, and be the creepiest fucker around. Laura turned to look at him over her shoulder.
‘So, is that a yes? I really don’t feel like fighting for my life right now, man.’
‘You’ve done enough,’ he nodded. ‘Get the hell outta here, I’ll clean this mess up. Not my first rodeo.’
‘Hopefully, your last.’
‘That’s the only reason you’re getting away,’ he took half a glance at Laura before pointing his finger at her. ‘No. Just…no. Not a word.’
She mimed utter surprise, but kept all the stingy comments about his way of expressing gratitude and where he could shove it to herself. There was, actually, something else to resolve first.
‘Max is on the island, I need to go get him.’
‘What, this island?’ Travis seemed genuinely confused.
‘Duh.’
‘Why?!’
‘Because there's water around it for safety?’ she was drawling out her words as if speaking with a child. Not a very bright child. The short fuse circuited.
‘No, why on earth would you b-- You know what, doesn’t matter. Go get him and get the hell out.’
‘We’re gonna need a car.’
A long, deep, exasperated sigh.
‘Fine, take mine.’
‘Thanks, Officer Di--’
‘Don’t you goddamn dare.’
And just like that, with his voice, the sun came up. Like a fucking switch. The audacity made Laura shiver. Sunrise spilled over the pile of bodies, flickered in pools of almost coagulated blood. Funny, how emotions work. Now it seemed like the only thing that dragged her through the last moments of the night was Travis Hackett’s dry growl of a speech. But now that work was done.
She got up.
‘Should we leave the car somewhere, or…?’ The cop looked at her with empty eyes for a moment, and then suddenly snorted. ‘What?’
Travis got up too, rubbing his sore shoulder and neck, but there was definitely a shitty smile on his lips.
‘What?!’ Laura repeated impatiently.
‘Yeah, there’s a place.’
To be honest, his smile was starting to look a little neurotic.
‘Either you spill it or…’
‘I was thinking, the Harbinger motel.’
He could barely contain himself. Laura blinked. Then blinked again. Then she felt her lips spread in the same crazed neurotic smile – and then the laughter came, waves and waves of it. They coughed, and wailed, and probably looked completely and utterly insane, both beaten and bloodied, but that was the most sane thing that happened over this hell of a night.
They had to take a moment to calm down, though. Both got quiet and serious. Travis cracked his neck, let out a deep breath. Once again, he became collected, reserved. A book closed shut. Laura regarded him for a moment. Then nodded.
‘I’d better go.’
And she almost did, except for the hand on her wrist. She twitched instinctively. The cop let go almost at once. His eyes were deadly serious now. The eyes of the man, whom she almost killed, but didn’t, and who almost killed her – but didn’t. Quite a pair they were. Last ones standing.
‘For the rest of the world, nothing happened here. Do you understand?’
Laura nodded again.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘I do.’
Accepting her answer, Travis tossed her the car keys.
‘Go, then. Now.’
‘Are you…’ she hesitated for a moment. ‘Are you gonna be okay?’
He just tilted his head, raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He was really, truly insufferable.
‘Nevermind, got it. Nothing happened, no lurking officers, no werewolves, nada.’
‘Good.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Harbinger motel.’
‘Heard that one before,’ she scoffed.
‘Better follow it through this time.’
‘Aye-aye, officer.’
She saluted and was finally able to turn her back on the man. She hoped to never, under no circumstances, to see him again. She tried to shift her thinking to the next steps. She even managed to feel a bit lighter with every step she put between herself and Travis Hackett.
