She didn’t know where Fiji was on a map, but she knew exactly how much blood it would take to get there.
Neon & Cyanide
The neon sign outside the diner buzzed like a trapped hornet, bleeding a sickly pink glow across Willie’s cheap suit. Four months. A personal record for both of them.
LeAnn swirled her straw in a melted milkshake, her eyes bright with a manic, dangerous light. She was talking about her dream again. Willie watched her lips move, captivated. To him, she wasn’t just a girl from the docks; she was his muse, the first beautiful thing in a life built of gray concrete and broken promises.
Then she leaned across the sticky laminate table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Your Uncle Arthur,” she murmured. “He’s eighty-nine, Willie. He’s got one foot in the grave and the other on a pile of cash. We knock him off, take the money, steal everything that isn’t nailed down. Then, we fly to Fiji.”
Willie blinked. “Fiji?”
“Yeah. Fiji.” She smiled, a dazzling, empty expression. She had no clue where Fiji actually was on a map—she just liked the way the word tasted on her tongue. It sounded like escape.
Willie’s stomach plummeted. Uncle Arthur was frail, but he’d given Willie his first watch. Still, looking into LeAnn’s cold, expectant eyes, Willie felt the suffocating weight of his own desperation. If he said no, she’d walk. If he said yes, he was a monster.
An hour later, they were standing in the shadow of Arthur’s brownstone. LeAnn pressed a heavy iron tire iron into Willie’s trembling hands, her kiss tasting like cherry syrup and copper.
“For us,” she whispered, pushing him toward the back door.
Willie stepped into the dark house. The floorboards didn’t creak. He reached the top of the stairs, the iron heavy in his grip.
How does the story end? Does Willie go through with the betrayal for a girl who only loves a fantasy, or does the shadow in the hallway belong to someone else? Write the final sentence and seal their fate.
