Arthur had found a radio in the truck. He turned it on, hoping for weather reports. Instead, he found the news.
“...the search for actress Beatrice continues tonight. Sources close to the investigation suggest her companion, a British national named Arthur, may be suffering from a delusional obsession. Police are warning the public not to approach...”
Arthur snapped the radio off. “Delusional obsession? They’re making me out to be a stalker.”
Beatrice was staring at her hands. “It’s Marcus. It’s his specialty. If he can't control the story, he destroys the characters. He’s making sure that if you ever tell the truth, nobody will believe you.”
She turned to him, her eyes searching. “Arthur... do you regret it? Meeting me?”
Arthur looked at the road. He thought about his life in London, the quiet, safe, boring life he had traded for this. He thought about the men in the canyon and the lies on the radio.
“I regret that the world is like this.” he said. “But I don't regret a single second with you.”
They stopped at a remote overlook. The wind was cold, smelling of cedar and ancient dust. Arthur took out his Leica. He looked at the footage he had taken—the real footage. The way Beatrice looked when she was sleeping, the way she laughed at his bad jokes, the way they looked together in the mirror of a gas station bathroom.
It was beautiful. It was the best thing he had ever shot.
And it was his death warrant.
“If I post this.” he said, holding the camera, “I can prove I’m not a kidnapper. I can show them we’re happy.
“No.” Beatrice said, her voice sharp. «”f you post it, you give them our location. You give Marcus exactly what he wants—more content to spin. You’d be doing exactly what you came here to do, Arthur. Using me for the channel.”
Arthur felt the sting of her words. He looked at the camera, then at her.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I don't know!” she cried, her voice echoing off the canyon walls. “I want to trust you. I do trust you. But every time you pick up that camera, I see the light go out in your eyes and the 'creator' take over. I don't want to be a video, Arthur. I want to be a person.”
She walked away, standing at the edge of the cliff.
Arthur stood there, the camera heavy in his hand. He realized she was right. Even now, in the middle of a crisis, he was thinking about the 'shot'. He was thinking about how this argument would look with the right color grading.
He felt a wave of self-loathing so strong it made him dizzy.
He walked over to her. He didn't say anything. He took the SD card out of the camera. He held it up so she could see it.
“This is everything.” he said. “All the proof. All the memories.”
He dropped it onto the ground and crushed it under the heel of his boot.
Beatrice gasped. “Arthur, why?”
“Because you’re right.” he said, his voice breaking. “I don't want the proof. I just want the memory. And I don't want to be a creator anymore. I just want to be with you.”
Beatrice looked at the shattered plastic on the ground. She looked at Arthur, and for the first time, the wall between them—the wall of fame and ambition—seemed to crumble.
She threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest.
“I’m sorry.” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
They stood there for a long time, held together by nothing but their own shared wreckage.
But as they turned to walk back to the truck, a black SUV pulled into the overlook.
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