CHAPTER 2
I claw at the rope around my neck, but it’s too tight for me to get my fingers under it.
No.
I can’t breathe. I can’tbreathe. Bob launches himself at my attacker, sinking his teeth into the person’s pant leg. The person kicks out. Bob flies across the asphalt with a yelp that cuts through me worse than any rope ever could.
No.
I thrash with everything I have. My heel connects with something solid—a shin? A knee, maybe? The person grunts deeply—he’s definitely a man—but he doesn’t loosen his grip. Then he’s dragging me backward, my boots scraping against pavement as he hauls me behind my car away from the lights, away from the guy sorting bottles, and away from the teenagers in their Civic who are too busy laughing to notice someone’s being murdered twenty feet away. The rope digs deeper, burning a line of fire across my throat. The parking lot lights blur into dying stars. Through the narrowing tunnel of my vision, I see Bob scrambling to his feet. I need to get to him. I…
I could just let go.
The thought slides into my brain with unnerving clarity. I could stop. Stop being the girl who survived when nobody else did. Stop pretending that sleeping in a car and being a mediocre construction worker is a life worth preserving.
Maybe this is the universe fixing its mistake. They’re waiting somewhere, aren’t they? Dad, Mom, and Rosie. Disappointed that despite getting a second chance, I’ve done nothing with my life. I’m a professional waste of space whose only achievement is keeping a four-pound dog alive.
Pathetic. Useless.
It would be so easy. Easier than another day pretending I’m not a walking corpse, going through the motions.
I’m trying to focus on the warm feeling, on the promise of finally resting, when a memory jolts me back to the present: Dad lying on the floor with his hands tied behind his back and a plastic bag over his head. He found my eyes through the clear film and closed his teeth on the plastic without breaking it. Held it in his teeth like a message.
Dad could have tried to save himself, but Stanley Daniels would have tied the next bag tighter. Dad let himself die so that when my turn came, I’d have a chance.
I’m thinking about this all wrong. Of course Dad wouldn’t think I was undeserving of a second chance. He’d only be disappointed if I gave up before I had the chance to be happy, not because he expected more from me but because he wanted moreforme. He died for me because he loved me. It would make him sad if I gave up now after eight years of struggling and never got to really live.
And Bob. I can’t do that to Bob.
I can hear him barking at me with everything his tiny body has, this frantic yapping that sounds like he’s screaming my name, like he’s begging me not to give up. If I die here, what happens to him? Does he hide under my car waiting for me to come back? Does he bark himself hoarse until someone calls animal control, and he ends up in a shelter where they’ll put him down because he’s too anxious and runs away when people try to pet him, and who the hell adopts a crusty, old Chihuahua?
I’m not perfect. Half the time I can barely take care of myself, let alone a dog, but I’m all he’s got. Like hell am I going to let him down.
So, I do what Dad told me to do. I bite through the goddamn bag.
I scream as hard as I can, making no sound because the rope is blocking my airway but filling my head with so much pressure that I feel like it’s about to explode. The man lifts me off my feet. I swing my legs, kicking my heel into anything I can reach. His grip doesn’t loosen. This asshole is strong.
The rope burns deeper. My vision narrows to a pinhole.
Then everything happens at once.
“Stop!” a man shouts. “Let her go!”
The pressure around my throat releases so suddenly that I choke on air. I collapse forward onto my hands and knees, gasping, my throat screaming with each breath. The asphalt is freezing against my palms, but I don’t care because I can breathe, oh God, I canbreathe.
I scramble away, my boots skidding on the pavement, and spin around just in time to see my attacker stumbling away from me.
He’s middle-aged. As short and stocky as Ray, and wearing business casual clothes. I’ve never seen him before in my life. His skin is slick with sweat, except it’s not sweat. The substance is thick and oily, leaking from the corners of his eyes and dripping from his nose.
Bob—where’s Bob?
I whip my head around for a couple of seconds before I see him, limping toward me with one front leg held up and enough single-minded determination to make a Navy SEAL proud. I reach for him and pull him behind me. I can feel him shaking—or maybe that’s me shaking?—but he’s safe, he’s behind me, and I’ve got him.
Only then do I look up.
An old man is running at full speed around us in a circle, and he’s holding the biggest bag of salt I’ve ever seen. He’s pouring it onto the ground in a thick line, his movements surprisingly fast for someone who looks like he’s pushing ninety. His hair is whiteand wild, sticking up in every direction like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket, and he’s wearing a pair of brass aviator goggles with lenses so dark they could be sunglasses.
“Restrain him!” Old Man yells.
