The Photograph Under the Sugar Dispenser

The world spun into a dizzying blur of headlights and screaming metal.

I wrenched the steering wheel, fighting the skid with everything I had. The Honda slammed hard against the concrete barrier, the side mirror shattering, sparks raining against the window.

“Keep driving!” Vincent shouted over the roar of the engines.

I slammed the accelerator. The little car groaned but surged forward, limping away from the barrier.

In the rearview mirror, the black SUV backed up, revving its engine for another strike.

We were on the old steel bridge crossing the Ridgewood River. Below us, the water was black and freezing.

“They’re going to run us off the edge!” I screamed.

Vincent unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned around, rolled down the passenger window, and leaned half his body out of the moving car.

The freezing wind whipped through the cabin.

“Vincent, what are you doing?!” my mother cried.

Vincent aimed Dana’s stolen pistol and fired three rapid shots at the pursuing SUV. The bullets shattered the SUV’s windshield. The driver jerked the wheel in panic.

The massive vehicle swerved, its tires catching the edge of the slick road, and slammed head-on into the bridge’s steel support beam. Smoke immediately billowed from its crushed hood.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Don't slow down,” Vincent grunted, sliding back into his seat, his face pale with pain from his bleeding shoulder. “Carmine will have sent more than one car.”

We crossed the bridge and tore onto the interstate heading east toward Philadelphia.

The silence inside the car was heavy, broken only by the hum of my mother’s portable oxygen machine and Leo’s soft, terrified sniffling.

I looked at Vincent. His dark eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. He looked at me, a genuine softness breaking through his tough exterior. “You drive like a getaway man, Emily.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice outrunning debt collectors,” I joked weakly.

A small smile touched his lips. It made him look painfully human.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said, looking back at my mother. “Ruth, I’m so sorry for all of this. For Arthur. I should have protected him twenty-eight years ago.”

“You were nineteen years old, Vincent,” my mother said softly. “Carmine was the monster. Not you. Arthur knew you had a good heart. That’s why he wanted to save you.”

Vincent looked down at his hands, heavy with decades of regret.

We drove for another hour in relative safety. The city lights of Philadelphia began to glow on the horizon. The federal building was close. We had the ledgers. We had the passwords on the bracelet. We were going to end it.

Suddenly, my mother’s oxygen machine let out a sharp, continuous beep.

I looked in the mirror. The green light on the console was flashing red.

“Mom?” I asked, panic rising. “What’s wrong?”

“The battery,” she gasped, her hands clutching her chest. “Emily… it’s dying.”

I pulled the car onto the shoulder of the highway, my hands shaking violently. I jumped into the backseat, grabbing the machine. The portable battery was entirely drained.

“No, no, no,” I sobbed, frantically hitting the reset button. “Mom, hold on. Just breathe.”

Her lips were already turning blue. She looked at me, a profound, terrifying peace in her eyes.

She reached up and unclasped the heavy silver bracelet from her wrist.

“Take it,” she wheezed, pressing it into my hand. “Finish it, Emily.”

“I’m not leaving you!” I screamed.

Vincent was out of the car, pulling a heavy wool coat from the trunk. He wrapped it around my mother.

“There’s a county hospital two miles back off the exit,” Vincent ordered, his eyes fierce. “Emily, get back in the driver’s seat. We are not letting her die tonight.”

I threw the car into drive, tears blinding me.

We tore off the exit ramp, but as we approached the bright red neon sign of the hospital emergency room, two black sedans were already parked by the entrance. Men in dark suits stood by the doors.