“I absolutely will not! And did you just say—did you just call me?—”
He sounds so indignant, it might actually be cute, if a) he wasn’t him, and b) we weren’t about to die in a fiery wreck. “Will you justlisten to me? Pull the damned car over!”
I harbor a faint hope that, since I didn’t couch the demand in the context of a premonition, he’ll actually comply. But instead, he white-knuckles the wheel as if he thinks I’m going to lunge across the space between us and wrest it from his grasp. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, like the world’s most attractive—and infuriating—guppy.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he says finally, in a low, measured voice, “but if you take meds and you’ve gone off them or something…”
I narrow my eyes, prepared for him to say the most offensive thing possible. After all, it would be on-brand. But what comes out of his mouth instead surprises me. “I could pick them up for you,” he says. “If it’s an issue of money… I know medication is expensive. And the health care system in this country is terrible. I could take you to get them, and I could pay?—”
A hysterical giggle escapes me. Who would’ve ever thought that Donovan Frost, non-holder of elevator doors, insulterof well-planned outfits, and generally appalling human being, would turn out to be a prescription drug Samaritan?
Of course, that’s what he thinks, though. That the chemistry in my brain’s gone haywire, and poor little freelance graphic designer me can’t afford my medication. Hell, I can’t even afford a working car or shoes whose heels don’t snap off mid-stride. I don’t know whether to be offended at his assumption, impressed he’s offered to help, or pissed off that he’sstill not listening to me.I’m busy trying to save our lives, and here he is, babbling about my imaginary meds. Meanwhile, we somehow need to find a way to collaborate on a project whose failure could cost me my job…if we survive this crash. The more I think about it, the harder I laugh. It’s either that, or start sobbing.
Donovan’s jaw tightens as we pull up to a stoplight, until I’m afraid he might crack a tooth. “It was just a thought,” he says. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
I squint, peering through the windshield for any hint of the Camaro, and wrack my brain for an excuse he’ll believe. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not on any meds. It’s just that it’s pouring so much,” I say, trying to sound pathetic. It’s not hard. “I really don’t like driving in storms. And I didn’t have breakfast today, because…well, this morning didn’t exactly go as planned. Could we maybe go get a bite to eat, just until the rain calms down? Peach Tree Grille’s right across the street, and they have the best milkshakes in Sapphire Springs.”
“Milkshakes for breakfast, huh?” His lips twitch.
“What’s wrong with milkshakes? They’re delicious.” And filled with sugar. “There’s a caramel-chocolate one that will change your life, I promise. I’ll even buy.”
His brows knit, as if I’ve proposed the unthinkable. And then the rock-hard line of his jaw softens, and I know I have him. “Sure,” he says, sounding nicer than he’s been all day. “Youshould’ve said you were hungry. I’ve probably got a protein bar in here somewhere, to tide you over.”
Of course he does. I repress another giggle as he reaches across me to open the glovebox—half at his predictability, half out of relief. Maybe we won’t die today, after all.
But then my laugh dies in my throat.
The light changes, and the red Camaro pulls out from the Peach Tree Grille parking lot. Donovan hands me a Clif bar and pulls into the intersection, babbling something about the significance of good nutrition and how breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
And then, three horrible things happen in quick succession.
Lightning strikes the oak tree directly across the street, which bursts into flame.
I scream, and Donovan takes his eyes off the road, grabbing my hand in instinctive horrified solidarity. Or maybe he’s just trying to shut me up by crushing my fingers.
And the Camaro swerves to avoid the oak’s splintered, smoking limbs, careening across the double yellow line and heading right for us.
Donovan lets go of my hand and hauls on the wheel, muttering a steady stream of obscenities. But the asphalt is wet and the car hydroplanes, going into a skid. He tries to turn into it, then tries to fight it, but across the road we go, snapshots looming up and then disappearing again: oak on fire, Peach Tree Grille’s cheerful coffee-cup sign, red Camaro, oak aflame again. I dig my nails into my palms so hard I’m sure I’m drawing blood as Donovan chantsshitfuckchristonagoddamnponywith such intensity, it sounds like a prayer.
The last thing I see before the red Camaro consumes my field of vision is the horrified face of the police officer who arrested me this morning behind the wheel.
There is a bone-rattling impact and the thud of metal on metal.
And then, nothing.
Chapter
Seven
“Rune. Rune! Wake up.”
Two very strong, very insistent hands dig into my shoulders, gripping hard enough to let me know they mean business. I don’t like them at all. They remind me of another set of hands, belonging to a man I’ve tried very hard to forget. Of the night I set his world on fire, then stood and watched it burn.
Ismellfire now, just as I did that night. It curls into my nose and sears my lungs, making me cough. Am I back there, withhim, somehow? Has he finally sought his revenge?
I swore I would never let him touch me again, or Julia, either. That I would protect her with my life. I paid for what I did, but it was worth it. To my dying day, I won’t change my mind.
In the darkness behind my closed eyelids, I twist, trying to get away from the hands that have me in their grip, but no dice. Fear trembles through me, andhisvoice echoes, bubbling up from the deep well where I spent years stuffing it away:I will find you, girl. You think you’ve won, but you’re fooling yourself. I will get to you, and we’ll see what goes up in flames then.
