They left San Francisco at dawn, the fog still clinging to the streets, the bridge emerging through the grey like a promise kept. Aaron drove the first stretch, the city receding behind them, the highway opening ahead.
The letters were in the bag beside him. The photographs were in Sophie's. The story of where the fortune came from was complete, folded and carried and known. What remained was the question of how it would end.
Sophie watched the coastline slide past, her hand resting on the gearshift between them. "What are you thinking?"
"That I've been running toward something for weeks. And now I don't know what I'm running toward anymore."
"Maybe you're not running toward something. Maybe you're running through something. And you're almost on the other side."
