The captain waited quietly, letting her get it out. The laughter turned to tears, the tears to quiet sobs, and then she just sat there, staring into space, feeling completely hollow.
The woman in the scarf approached them. She was carrying two mugs—real ceramic mugs, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the highway.
“Tea,” she said, handing one to Susan. “With mint and honey. Drink up, dear. It’ll help.”
Susan took the mug and wrapped her hands around it, warming her cold fingers. The tea smelled the way her grandmother’s house used to smell in her childhood—of herbs, honey, and something warm and safe.
“You saved my life,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
The woman sat down beside her.
“My name is Eleanor. And I’m no psychic, if that’s what you were thinking. I’m a retired nurse. Spent forty years in surgery before I retired.”
Susan looked up at her, surprised.
“But you said… about seeing things, about the blood…”
Eleanor smiled, and the wrinkles around her eyes formed a kind, sad pattern.
“I did. And I wasn’t lying. But it’s not magic, dear. It’s observation. Forty years in surgery teaches you to read people like a book. I noticed your husband back at the station, before we even boarded. He was hanging around the bus, looking over his shoulder, acting nervous. Then he knelt by the back wheel, pretending to tie his shoe. Except his shoes were tied, I’d already noticed. And afterwards, his hands were greasy. He wiped them on his pants, thinking no one would see.”
She took a sip of her tea and continued.
“And once we were on the bus, I watched him. I saw how he looked at you. How he kept checking his watch. How he got nervous every time the bus slowed down. I even read his lips when he was muttering to himself. He kept repeating a number. Four. The fourth stop.”
“But why did you say you had a vision?”
“How else would you have believed me?” Eleanor shrugged. “If I had come up to you and said, ‘Get off, I think your husband is up to something’? You would have thought I was a crazy old woman and stayed right where you were. But this way? People are quicker to believe in mysticism than in simple facts. Especially when it comes to their loved ones. It’s easier to believe in a dark premonition than to believe the man you’ve spent twenty years with wants to kill you.”
Susan was silent. There was a bitter truth in Eleanor’s words. She wouldn’t have believed her. She would have brushed her off, decided the stranger was meddling. And she would have stayed on the bus. And in half an hour…
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for not just walking away.”
Eleanor placed a hand on hers.
“I couldn’t walk away, dear. Not with all those people on the bus. Twenty-five souls. And that little boy with his mother. No, I couldn’t.”
They sat in silence, watching the police work around the bus. The mechanic was back underneath, taking pictures and dictating notes. Another bus, a regular shuttle, had arrived to take the stranded passengers home. They boarded quietly, still not fully understanding what had happened or what they had been saved from.
The young mother and her child walked past. The boy wasn’t crying anymore; he held his mother’s hand and looked around with wide, curious eyes. When he drew level with Susan, he stopped and looked at her seriously.
“Don’t cry, lady,” he said. “It’s okay now. The policemen saved everyone.”
His mother gently pulled him along, giving Susan an apologetic look, but Susan managed a smile through her tears.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re right. Everything is okay now.”
The boy nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and walked on, holding tight to his mother’s hand. Susan watched them go, thinking that this child could have died today. He and his mother, and the old man with the cane, and the two workers, and everyone else. Twenty-five people, each with families, friends, and plans for the future. And it all nearly ended because of one man’s greed. Because of a wooden cabin with an apple tree on six acres of land.
“Mrs. Miller,” the captain approached her again. “We need to get your official statement. Are you able to come with us to the station?”
She nodded and stood up. Her legs were still shaky, but they held her.
“Eleanor,” she turned to the woman.
“You too, ma’am.”
“Yes, I’m a witness. I’ll go with you, dear. I won’t leave you.”
They got into the police car together, sitting in the back like old friends, not like two strangers who had met only hours before on a shuttle bus. Susan stared out the window at the passing fields, the gray sky, the raindrops streaking across the glass. Her world had collapsed, but she was still alive. And that was what mattered.
Susan spent several hours at the police station. They put her in a small office with drab walls and worn-out chairs, brought her more tea and a sandwich she couldn’t eat. The detective—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and her hair in a tight bun—asked questions calmly, without pressure, giving her time to think and collect herself.
Susan told her everything. About buying the cabin, the money from her mom’s condo, how Mark had changed after the papers were signed. About the overheard morning phone call, his strange behavior that day, his insistence on the bag and his seat on the bus. Her voice broke several times, but she forced herself to keep going. It was important. It was necessary for this to be over.
Eleanor gave her statement in the next room. Then they were brought together to confirm details and sign the reports. It was all a blur: faces, voices, papers with official stamps. Susan signed where they told her to, answered questions, nodded at the right times. She felt empty and cold inside, as if someone had switched off her emotions so she could function.
When the formalities were over, the detective leaned back in her chair and gave Susan a long, sympathetic look.
“Do you have somewhere to go tonight?”
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