“Soph—” he gurgles, frantically clawing at me with his free hand, his blunt nails digging into my skin.
I lock my arms, muscles straining as I pull back as hard as I can. He’s wedged a fingertip between the zip tie and his neck, and my arms are trembling with the effort of resisting him. He’s so much stronger than I am, but if I can just hold out…
The gunshot splits the air, and the windshield implodes in a shower of shards. I flinch from the flying glass, jerking back, and suddenly Adam’s hands aren’t on the wheel anymore. One’s holding the gun and the other��s pinning my wrists, and the car’s spinning, too fast, too close to the safety rail. I have one second, one hysterical breath to take in before metal screeches and sparks, and we’re through the guard rail and racing down the slope, trees and boulders blurring as our speed picks up and I know it’s over. The end.
Third time’s the charm.
60
FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)
I wake to the sound of Mina dying. A death rattle.
“Mina, oh my God, Mina.” I crawl over to her; it’s like I’m moving underwater.
She’s lying on her back a foot away, bathed in the light from the car’s brights and the blood, her blood, has already stained the dirt around her. Her hands rest against her chest, and her eyes are barely open.
There’s blood everywhere. I can’t even tell where the bullets went in. “Okay, okay,” I say, words that have no meaning, just to fill the air, to drown out the sound of her breath, the way it comes too fast and shuddery, wet at the end, like her lungs are already filling.
I rip my jacket off, press it against her chest where the dark wetness keeps spreading. I have to stop the blood.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes.
“No, no, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.” I look over my shoulder, half convinced he’s lurking somewhere, waiting to finish us off.
But he’s gone.
She coughs, and when blood trickles out of her mouth, I wipe it away with my hand. “I’m so sorry, Sophie,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to be. It’s okay.” I press harder into her chest with both hands. “It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.”
But the blood bubbles up against my fingers, through the denim of my jacket.
How can there be this much blood? How much can she lose before…
She swallows, a convulsive movement, and when she breathes out, more red stains her mouth. “Hurts,” she says.
When I reach out with one hand to smooth the hair off her forehead, I leave a trail of blood behind. All I can think about is that time in third grade. She fainted when I cut my arm open so badly I needed stitches; she didn’t like blood. I want to hide it from her now, but I can’t. I can see it in her eyes, that she knows what’s happening, the thing I can’t accept.
“It’s okay,” I say again. I swear it, when I have no right to.
“Sophie…” She lifts her hand, clumsily drags it toward mine. I twist our fingers together, hold on tight.
I won’t let her go.
“Soph—”
Her chest rises with one last jagged breath and then she exhales gently, her body going still, her eyes losing their light, their focus on me dimming as I watch. Her head leans to the side, her grip slowly loosening in mine.
“No, no, no!” I shake her, pound against her chest. “Wake up, Mina. Come on, wake up!” I tilt her head back and breathe into her mouth. Over and over, until I’m drenched in sweat and blood. “No, Mina! Wake up!”
I hold her tight against my shoulder and scream in the darkness, begging for help.
Wakeupwakeupwakeuppleasepleaseplease.
No help comes.
It’s just her and me.
Mina’s skin gets colder by the minute.
I still don’t let her go.
61
NOW (JUNE)
I smell the smoke first. Then charred metal and gasoline, the tang filling the air, sharp in my nose. There’s a rhythmic ringing in my head, growing louder and louder. I blink, but something spills into my eyes, moisture that I smear off my face.
I squint down at my bound hands, trying to focus as the wetness drips down my chin, splattering red on my arm.
Blood.
It hurts. I realize it between one shaky breath and another. Everything hurts.
Oh, God.
My legs. Do they work?
I push forward with my good one, and it hurts, it hurts, and I never thought it’d feel so good to hurt that much, but pain is good. Pain means I’m not paralyzed. That I’m still alive.
Is Adam? I try to push myself up to see, but the ringing in my ears grows louder as I lean forward through the gap between the seats. I tilt my head up, trying to get a good look at him, slumped over the steering wheel. His dark hair is matted with blood on one side, and his chest is rising and falling steadily.
I have to get out of here before he comes to.
My mind’s made up in a second. I hook the edge of the zip tie around the jagged edge of the broken window, sawing it back and forth until it snaps. My hands free, I grab the door handle, trying to push it open, but it’s jammed.
The ringing sound’s getting louder, like someone’s turned up the volume on me, and underneath the insistent tones, there’s a moaning.
Adam begins to stir in the front seat, and I try the opposite door handle, my heart pounding as more blood dribbles down my cheek. This door’s also too mangled to open, so I heave myself up and out of the broken window. The fit’s tight, and glass digs into my stomach as I push myself forward, but I keep going, pitching headfirst, almost somersaulting out of the car. I hit the forest floor with a thump, my shoulders tightening as pain flares down my back.
The car had gone straight down the embankment, the hood crumpled like ribbon candy. Smoke is rising off the engine, choking me, and I cough weakly, something sharp knifing through my ribs.
I stumble up to standing, unsteady on shaky legs, and look around. We’ve ended up in a flatter area, but there are trees looming everywhere. Deep forest spreads ahead of me on all sides. I want to get the gun and my phone, but I don’t see either of them in the car, and I don’t have time to look—I’ve got to go. Leaves and branches crackle underneath my feet. The full moon is climbing in the sky, its light illuminating the forest.
I have to move. I forge ahead, my bad leg dragging in the dirt, catching on rocks and branches, leaving a trail a mile wide, dotted with blood. Even with the moonlight, it’s hard to see. I stumble, falling to my knees, my palms scraping the dirt as I push myself back up.
Climbing the embankment isn’t possible. Not like this, not with my bad leg, and not with my good one, which is trembling almost as badly.
Hiding’s the only option.
The trees thicken as I limp farther into the woods as fast as I can, weaving between the pines as the smoky smell from the crash starts to fade into the dark scents of earth and water, a stronger tang of copper sharpening the breeze. My stomach’s wet; my shirt’s heavy with blood, slapping against my belly with each movement. I don’t have to look down to see the darkness of blood spreading. The cuts on my stomach are shallow but long; they sting with each breath I take, along with the pain in my ribs. But I keep moving. I have to keep moving as fast as I can.
For what feels like forever, it’s just me and my harsh breathing and each step crushingly loud in my ears, hurting, hurting, hurting, and wondering if it’s going to be my last. If I’m going to fall.