Framed

Content Warning: mild language and mention of blood/murder

They say that when you're on the run, you should never look back. 

You're supposed to always keep moving: never stay in one place for too long and never stop for anything or anyone.

But the moment I parked in front of a small roadside diner off of I-10’s exit from LA, I broke all three rules. And to be frank, I didn’t care, because I was not about to pass up a final peaceful dinner before I spent the next five, six, seven, God knew how many months on the road. 

The air was sticky, despite the moon and stars watching above. I slid out of the Mustang I had stolen twenty miles back, trying not to look suspicious. The hood of the scratched-up car was stained with mud, and as I rounded the front, I noticed a dent above one of the headlights; it looked every bit like a stolen car, but the darkness would help cover it for now.

As I headed for the entrance to the diner, my eyes scanned its occupants through the yellow windows. There weren't that many people, and I was able to easily assess each person, count the number of exits in the building, identify potential threats, and pick the best spot in the house: a corner booth adjacent to the kitchen, giving me eyes to every shadow of the diner, inside and out.

As I sat, I adjusted the gun in my waistband and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I desperately needed a shower, and the jacket I had found in the Mustang, a ripped-up denim monstrosity that smelled of liquor and smoke, was barely doing its job of hiding the blood on my shirt beneath. I shifted in my seat, and I was very painfully reminded that I would need to check the wound on my shoulder before I left to make sure it wasn't infected.

A series of sudden, sharp clacks made me perk up. I looked up to find an older waitress in a striped uniform clacking her way over to me. I pulled the jacket tighter around my body and put on my best smile. "Hi, there." 

"Coffee?" she asked dryly, handing me a menu. I took it, but I didn't open it.

"Yes, that would be wonderful, but I'm actually in a bit of a hurry, and I already know what I want, if you don't mind."

"Sure, Sugar, what can I get ya?”

"I'll take a black coffee, three stacks of blueberry waffles, a side of bacon and a side of ham, a plate of scrambled eggs, three pieces of toast, and a slice of apple pie, please. Oh, and a to-go box.”

The waitress furiously scribbled down the order. I saw the slight rise in her brow, the pinch of her cheek; she was definitely annoyed, but made no comment on the order as she took the menu back and said in a deadpan, monotone voice, "Coming right up."

I grinned, watching her return to the kitchen, and settled further into the booth, my mouth watering at the thought of all of that delicious food.

"That's a lot of food, Rore, even for someone like you."

My eyes shot open, and my body went rigid as I found the last person I was expecting to see here standing before me: Sheriff Sam McCounty.

Looked like this wasn’t the best seat in the house.

I forced my muscles to relax, forced myself not to instinctively reach for my gun, and forced myself to relax. "Sam, it's nice to see you. What are you doing all the way out here?"

Sam removed his hat, the curls of his hair sliding across his forehead, betraying the youth in his face he’d always tried to cover. "I think you already know why I'd be here." Sam sat down across from me, and my heart skipped a few uneasy beats. His eyes were the same: dark brown lined in honey hazel, lined in such intensity it was hard for me to meet them.

"I'm looking for you," he finally said.

I kept my tone cool and calm, even though I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. "Oh, I see. Have you decided to move on from chasing me through the streets? Are you paying visits now?"

"Rore," his voice was low and dangerous.

"I mean, you break up with me after four years of dating, and then two weeks later try to frame me for a murder I didn't commit, so I can't see why you'd ever think I would know why you'd be here-“

Sam slammed his hand on the table. "Rore, please, will you just shut up for one second so I can explain."

This made me jump. The entire diner seemed to freeze, and I felt the eyes of the people in the booths around us. But after a minute, they turned back as if nothing happened.

Sam closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. In the lighting of the diner, I could see the freckles that dotted his cheeks and the scar that ran down his left eyebrow: the one I gave him six weeks ago. 

"I'm sorry, Rore, I - just please, let me explain things."

I looked at him, the quiet parking lot behind him, and then at the dark road beyond that.

Sam caught my gaze and sighed. "It's just me, Rore. No one else. I haven't told anyone where I am."

He seemed sincere, but I knew I couldn’t trust what he was saying. In fact, I couldn’t trust one bit of him, but I found myself staying put, found my shoes glued to the ground, and my hands stuck, gripping the edge of my seat. 

"You have until my food arrives."

With a relieved look, Sam set his hat down on the table and took a deep breath.

"After we broke up, the Captain knew you'd have information, government information, that you should have never learned from me."

He wanted you to sign an NDA, but enough of the board knew that it wasn't a fool-proof plan. At the same time, they were working on getting rid of a dirty cop, a man who was feeding classified information from the precinct to an underground mob ring in the city. And so, that’s when they decided to frame you for his murder."

I blinked, trying to understand. "But I have no connections with any mob ring. Why would they frame it on me? And who's to say that I wouldn't use the information I know to blackmail them? And why didn't you warn me, because you could have-"

"I'm not done, Rore."

I stopped, mouth open like a gaping fish. Frowning, I crossed my arms and mumbled, “Go on.”

"The Captain knew we could make it look like an accident; a car wreck, a neatly placed bottle of whiskey, and enough inside cops to lie to make it work."

"Son of a bitch." 

"So they went through with it, and they told me that if I warned you, they would take me down with you. I stayed quiet because I knew that if I continued to work with them, I could help you escape."

My chest hurt, and so did my stomach and my limbs and my brain. It was all too much. "Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

Sam took another deep breath, and this time, his eyes lowered to the table. His voice was scratchy, and he spoke so softly I almost didn’t hear him. "Because I knew that after we broke things off, you wouldn't have believed anything I would have said. I knew that you would want nothing to do with me."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "And you were right," I whispered, trying to keep my voice from breaking. Sam looked back up at me. "I wouldn't have believed a word because you always made it so hard for me to have faith in you. In us."

   "Look," Sam's face pinched together, and his tone grew desperate. "I know things didn't work out for a reason, but I'm here now because what the Captain is doing is wrong.” Something shifted on Sam’s face, and this time the pain lining his eyes was real. “And because…because I still care about you, Rore."

I shook my head. He’d had so much time to stop this, to stop all of it, and he chose not to. But the anger that had been gathering in me since the last time I'd seen Sam - when I’d had to fight my way out of the city and throw a literal hammer at him to keep his squad from getting to me - died. I was tired of trying to figure out Sam; all of the fight I’d thought I had left was gone.

"Here's your food, Sugar."

Both Sam and I jumped this time, and the waitress looked at us strangely as she delivered the mountain of food. But, I didn't care, because a savory aroma that made my stomach knot in hunger filled my senses. I could barely think as I began to cut into the plate of waffles and pour the syrup. 

I cleared my throat. "Feel free to have some, but if you do, you're paying."

Sam said nothing as he picked up a piece of burnt toast. 

We ate in silence for the next few minutes. I shoveled as much food as I could manage into my mouth and consolidated the rest, stacking them into a neat pile for the to-go box later. 

After I had finished the last of the eggs, Sam spoke. " I can help you get out of here."

I didn't respond. Instead, I looked out the windows at the darkness that lay there, and at the shining lights in the distance that belonged to the home that betrayed me. 

Sam reached out, his hand slipping in mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I had forgotten what it was like to hold his hand, to feel the warmth of his fingers, the rough texture of his skin. I met his eyes, and that was all it took for me to remember everything that made me fall in love with him in the first place. But I shoved those feelings away; locked them back in the carefully made cage around my heart.

"I did this," he said, his voice strained. "I told you things I shouldn't have. I tried so hard to get them to punish me, not you, but they wouldn't. Please, let me fix things. Let me help you."

I could see the hurt etched in his face, could hear it in his words, but I could not feel it. I knew he took responsibility for what happened, and I knew he could help me. 

But he could have helped me from the beginning. There had been something holding him back, and that something would always be more important to him than anything: his pride.

I pulled my hand away. "I'm sorry, Sam."

His eyes widened, and I saw the fear that took root there. Fear for himself or me, I wasn't sure, but he was tough, and so was I. 

"Rore, listen to me-"

"No, Sam, you listen. I'm gonna make it out of this on my own. You're going to go back to the city and give them this." I reached into my back pocket, grabbed the letter I'd been working on for weeks now, and slid across the table to Sam. "Think of it as an unofficial NDA. They clear my name, and I won’t say anything. For now, I'm leaving California, and I'm not coming back."

"Rore, wait, you can’t-"

"Please don't make this any harder than it already is, Sam." I stood, grabbing my box of food. "I doubt we'll ever see each other again, but if we do," I smiled, trying to put as much warmth into my face as possible, "I really hope it's under better circumstances."

Sam didn't try to stop me as I walked to the exit. I thanked the waitress, who muttered something and rolled her eyes, and then I slipped out the door into the hot night. The Mustang smelled worse than it had before, and I coughed as I got inside, but I didn't complain. I’d figure something out in the next town.

As I began to back out, Sam walked out of the diner. He stopped just before the curb and watched me, his silhouette framed by the diner’s yellow lights. He still made no move to stop me, despite his police car sitting right in front of him, as I pulled up to the entrance back onto the highway. In my rearview mirror, I saw him lift a hand and wave.

I wasn't sad, more tired and disappointed, but something in my heart broke all the same. Sam would be okay, eventually, and so would I.

I pressed the gas pedal and drove onto the road. This time I didn't look back.