“She’s going to run.”
“She’s surrounded.”
Vanessa steps backward onto the dock. Then another step. Her hand drops into the tote bag.
Cole’s face hardens. “Down.”
I duck before I even think. Sloane’s voice cuts across the lot, calm and carrying.
“Vanessa Moreau. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
I hear Vanessa laugh. It is not the laugh I know. It is too high. Too thin. A pretty thing stretched until it tears.
“You brought an audience,” she calls.
Kara, I tell myself. Stay down and breathe. Move when Cole says move. Live through this.
Sloane shouts again in a deep, authoritative tone. “Take your hand out of the bag.”
“Kara,” she calls. “Honey. Get out of the car.”
I grip the edge of the seat.
Sloane says, “Vanessa, look at me.”
“No.” Vanessa’s voice cracks. “No, I am done looking at everyone except her. Everyone always gets between us. Professors. Producers. Publicists. Therapists. Now him.”
“He gets two days, and you’re hooked on him, Kara?” she says, louder now. “I had years.”
Vanessa notices. Her hand tightens inside the tote.
Cole’s voice is low, meant for me. “Stay down.”
“No,” I whisper.
“Kara.”
“If she only talks to me, let me talk.”
“No.”
“If she runs, this gets worse.”
“She has a weapon.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know.”
The certainty in his voice turns my stomach.
“Kara, you must stay down.”
Something in his voice empties the world of everything except obedience and breath. I fold forward as far as the seat belt allows, my cheek near my knees, the dashboard above me, my pulse hammering so hard I can hear it.
Cole starts the engine but cracks his window a bit. Outside, Sloane’s voice cuts across the lot.
“Vanessa Moreau. Take your hand out of the bag slowly.”
