I glide forward into a new world. All sense of direction is lost; only the winding rivers guide me. I opt for increasingly wide channels, hoping the streams converge as they near the gulf.

A snake weaves its way along the surface of the water, body undulating in primal rhythms. It moves close to my boat and I could reach out and touch it, if I tried.

I don't.

The police must be closer, now. Soon enough, they'll know I stole this boat, and then they'll know where I set off from.

They might be searching, but the swamp is a big place. I decide to try stealth, and a few miles into my journey I kill the engine. I float on gently, cutting a path through the murky green.

On occasion, I spot an alligator resting on the shore, or see something in the water that might be a log—but maybe not. More unnerving is the sound of splashing ahead of me, as creatures with senses more keen than mine clear a path.

Morgan's duffel bag sits in one corner of the boat, little beads of moisture collating on the black canvas surface. The object of everyone's attention, sitting sullen in the corner—reduced to an unwieldy burden in our wild new environment.

I lean forward, balancing carefully, and pick it up. The effort drags a groan from my body.

The zipper gets stuck at three different places along its track, but quick tugs break it free. The bag opens to reveal the tired, damp bills that are cramped inside.

Weird to think that Morgan is out there, somewhere, and doesn't have this with her. She always had the bag, it was a part of her. She can't have planned to leave me with it.

Makes me wonder. I dig through with both hands, lifting stacks of bills, letting them fall back inside. The smartphone, a black rectangle that's all screen, rests unused—haven't seen it since Jack used it as a map after Lake Charles. Two revolvers hang heavy in the corner, each loaded with the safety on.

In the back, a black tube. Thought it was a flashlight, at first—but it's just a plastic cylinder. I grab it; it's warm with the day.

The tube comes out of the bag and I twist the top half. It begins to unscrew, resisting first, then sliding easily as threads guide it through the rotation.

Inside: a plastic bag and a letter. Below that, a cell phone.

Now, this is curious.

I fish out the plastic bag, first. There is something metal inside, and the contents are coated with a sticky brown tar.

The bag peels open, sides glued together by the muck. A rotten smell wafts up; I turn the bag upside down and a heavy piece of metal falls to the floor of the boat with a knock.

It's a folding knife, a big one. Maybe five inches of handle, so another five of blade if it were opened.

The tar, then, might be dried blood. I let the weapon sit and pull the letter out next.

Two small paragraphs are typed out at the center of the page:

Jack Vickery—real name Justin Savarin—used this knife to murder Kayla McPherson in Port Lavaca, Texas. He has a tattoo that reads 'freedom from myself' on his left arm. Both his blood and her blood should show up in a DNA test. The enclosed cell phone belonged to Kayla for the days preceding her murder, and the texts confirm my statement.

If you find this, it is because he betrayed me.

Morgan's insurance over Jack. Maybe her price for helping him hide the body—she took the murder weapon. A short leash.

Unable to resist, I turn the cylinder the rest of the way over. A small black cell phone slides out, lands in my lap. The same phone Kayla wouldn't look up from the morning this all began.

I open the clamshell phone and press the power button. But, nothing happens.

I hold my thumb down again, but again, nothing.

Shame. Would love to know what Jack and Kayla talked about.

Something occurs to me: this phone is familiar. Either Jack or Morgan purchased this one as well as the phone in my pocket. I retrieve it, and a quick check confirms they're the same model. I slide the battery pack off, then do the same with Kayla's phone, and place mine in it.

The phone powers on. I click through the simple menu system, heading to 'messages.'

Only one person texted her, and there are no names or contacts. The first exchange gives Morgan her leverage:

—Hello.

Who is this?

—This is your new life speaking. You can call me Jack.

The texts cover a few weeks—some sparse, disjointed back-and-forth, one telling the other they've arrived, and so on. I scroll to the end, to the morning she was killed:

Are you ready for me?

—I'm waiting.

This is it.

—This is it. You do everything like I said?

Almost. I put the drain plugs in Sean's closet.

—What? Why? Don't do that.

It's better this way.

—It's not better. Your dad gets the money if you're murdered. We only get it if you drown.

All you care about is money. The whole town will be talking about me. When I come back, it will blow their minds.

—You know you can't come back. You told me you were okay with that. This is forever.

I'm coming, get ready.

There are no more messages. I close the phone.

Kayla is the one who framed me, not Jack.

"When I come back."

Stupid, selfish girl.