Alabama’s Redemption

Zoe’s Point of View

I had felt death whisper in my ear before, but never like that night. Never so close. Never so inevitable. The marks I bore—the scrapes on my face, the deep pain in my broken ribs—were reminders of the “accident” that had nearly killed me a week ago. Except it hadn’t been an accident. I knew that in my bones. Albert, my stepfather, wanted me dead. Two weeks ago, I was making plans for the future with James. I was planning college, trips, maybe even an apartment with a view of the ocean. Now... now my only plan was to survive another day.

The diner where I was hiding seemed suffocatingly small. The peeling paint on the walls, the smell of old grease, the sticky floor. I pressed my back against the cold wall, trying to make myself smaller, invisible. Then I saw the two men.

They shouldn't have been there.

The images condensed in my mind when I realized that one of them was holding a photo of me—a smiling Zoe, with shiny hair and expensive clothes. Nothing like the soaked and bruised girl I was at that moment. The waitress took the photo, confused, and my heart leapt into my throat. I had to get out. I had to disappear from Seattle. Staying away from Albert wasn't enough. I had to vanish from the face of the Earth. I walked quickly down the narrow hallway, pulling my hood over my face. My body ached, but I kept going, trying not to look back. I passed close to the men, the strong smell of cigarettes and leather invading my nose. As soon as I reached the door, something made me turn around. One of the men looked up. Our eyes met.

That was enough.

I pushed the door open with force and ran into the street, as if the whole city depended on it. The rain fell violently, pounding the sidewalks, making every step a risk of falling. But I ran. I ran until my lungs burned and my feet slipped in dark puddles. The lights of Seattle were blurry spots around me. The shadows behind me—them—seemed to multiply. When I turned a narrow corner, my legs gave way. I stumbled behind a trash can, falling onto the wet ground. My body shook, and the pain in my ribs brought tears to my eyes. My breathing was ragged and difficult.

My end was here. I knew it.

I heard footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. Determined. The cold, terrible feeling that I had nowhere left to run overwhelmed me. I slowly lifted my face—and saw the huge man with empty eyes and a cruel smile.

The gun rose toward my face.

And I just... gave up. I was so exhausted, so broken, that the idea of finally resting seemed almost merciful. My mother. I thought of her. Last summer. The waves breaking on the beach. The warmth of her embrace. I closed my eyes. I let my body relax. The click of the trigger happened, and then the shot echoed like thunder. I felt something warm hit my face—blood—but... it wasn't my pain. It wasn't my death. I opened my eyes, slowly, confused, and found a pair of intense blue eyes just inches from me. A male face, dangerously handsome, was approaching. His body bent over mine, his breathing rapid. He held my shoulders firmly, as if anchoring me to life.

He wasn't the man who was hunting me. He was... something else.

"We need to get out of here," his deep voice struck me like a command and a comfort at the same time. "Linda, now."

"H-He..." I looked over his shoulder. The body on the floor. "He... he's dead."

"And you're still in danger. Come."

I should have questioned him. I should have resisted. He was a stranger. A huge, armed man who had just killed someone. But the way he touched me... felt unlike anything I had ever known. Instead of fear, something inside me felt relief. He lifted me with surprising gentleness for someone so big. A second of contact with his warm chest, with his woodsy scent, was enough to make my body tremble—not just with fear.

"Come on, beautiful."

He took me to a black motorcycle parked at the end of the street. The rain fell heavily on us, but his presence felt like a barrier against the chaos.

"Hold on tight to me."

"W-Who are you?"

"Someone who will do anything to keep you alive."

And then the city was left behind, blurred by speed, rain, and fear. I clung to that stranger as if my life depended on it — because it did. The rest of the night was a blackout, disconnected pieces of lights, wind, and darkness.

"What was Dad like?" I asked my mother in the memory that always came back.

"A disaster," she said, laughing.

"Stubborn, annoying, bossy... but capable of loving with the force of a hurricane."

I wanted to have memories of him. I wanted to have memories of her that didn't hurt so much.

I woke up with a start, breathing rapidly. The room was small, smelling of mold and old wood. The dark walls were cracked, and the bedspread was faded. Dim light filtered through the dirty window. Everything inside me screamed: you're not dead. I tried to move—the sharp pain in my back made me groan. I looked down. I was wearing an oversized men's shirt.

"What the hell...?" I muttered.

Before I could understand anything, the door opened. The same man entered, dressed in black from head to toe, bags in his hands. The slow, lazy smile that formed on his lips made my stomach turn.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"W-Who are you?" I automatically backed away.

"You don't remember anything, do you?" He placed the bags on the table. His hands were huge, marked with veins, and the leather jacket seemed tailor-made for his broad body. "You almost died yesterday. I saved you."

The images came in flashes. The blue eyes. The gun. The rain.

"You saved me," I whispered.

He approached with steady steps. Before I could run away, his hands touched my arms. Warm. Secure.

"Breathe with me, beautiful."

I obeyed. The fear receded a little, giving way to something strange... familiar.

"You had a fever all night," he explained. "I took off your wet clothes. I didn't do anything to you. I just wanted to prevent pneumonia."

I nodded slowly, feeling my face flush.

"I... I have to go. He'll kill me."

His jaw tightened, his expression darkening.

"Who's after you?"

I didn't answer. How could I trust him? I didn't even know his name.

He sighed impatiently.

"Fine. But if you want help, you'll have to tell me what's going on."

"I just need to get out of Seattle."

“And where are you going?” He looked at my body, assessing every bruise. “You can’t run away like this. You’re hurt. You have no money. You have no strength.”

My chest tightened. The truth was right there, laid out in front of me.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “He’s going to kill me.”

"Hey." He crouched down in front of me, his expression softening. "I won't let that happen."

His words shouldn't have meant so much, but they did.

I looked around. We were in a cheap hotel, near the edge of town—he explained. I thanked him for everything. I told him he could go back to his life. His reaction was immediate: a short, incredulous laugh.

"Do you really think I'm going to leave you alone after what I saw yesterday?" He sat down next to me on the bed, too close, too hot. "I have a solution."

"What?"

"I was leaving Seattle yesterday. Going to Alabama. My family lives there. It's far away. It's safe. If you want... you can come with me."

"Alabama?" I repeated. "You'd take me with you?"

"If you trust me."

I laughed nervously.

"I don't even know your name."

"And I don't know yours, beautiful."

“Zoe.”

He smiled—and it was the kind of smile that makes the world stop for a second. He took my hand slowly, as if it were something precious.

“I’m Cole.”

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Zoe.”