When a friend from back home in Providence mentioned rumors of a pervy teacher at her little sister’s high school, it didn’t take long for said pervert to take the bait on my fake social media accounts. Before long, he was asking for photos and begging for a meetup with “Gemma,” my teenage alter ego. And I thought, Hell, why not? I can come home for a visit, party for Halloween, and get rid of some vermin. Technically, I guess I was successful, though I hadn’t really intended to run Mr. Jamie Merrick into the water. I was hoping to force him to the side of the road and shoot him in the face, find a worthy trophy to take, and then leave him there like the piece of trash he is. Unfortunately, he seemed to catch on that he was in trouble and nearly got away. I guess I gave him a big clue with my failed attempt to shoot out one of his tires when he refused to pull over. Cackling maniacally as I waved the gun out the window probably didn’t help either.
It might sound surprising, but it’s actually not that hard to get away with shooting someone on a deserted road and driving away. Problem is, it’s a little harder to cover your tracks when part of your car is imprinted on part of theirs.
On the plus side, ramming that asshole’s vehicle into the lake does have more theatrical flair.
“Everything will work out better in the end,” I whisper as I use a coin to loosen the screws from my rear license plate. The front plate is a crumpled sheet of metal—I already picked it up from the road. When I’m finished, I drag my coat out of the Escalade and pull on a pair of gray sweats over my tiny shorts and fishnet tights. With my gun safely holstered in my bag, I gather the paperwork from my glove compartment before I toss the strap over my shoulder and close the door.
For a moment, I just stand at the steep bank of boulders where Jamie’s car flipped and catapulted him into the afterlife. His face is so clear in my mind, illuminated by my headlights in the instant before the crash. Wide, panicked eyes. Curly blond hair. His mouth agape in a silent scream. He was terrified. He knew he was about to die and had no idea why.
Shouldn’t I feel bad about it?
Because I don’t. Not at all.
I blink away the determined fury that still lingers in my veins and grin at the watery grave ahead. “Sometimes karma needs a backup bitch, don’t you think, Mr. Merrick?”
With a satisfied sigh, I stride toward the rocky shore.
I text my stepdad to let him know I’m okay and set a timer for the next message. Then I climb the jagged rocks until I find a spot out of view from the road. With my hood tugged up over my pigtails and my body aching from the crash, I lie down on one of the granite boulders and stare up at the sky, a perfect place to wait.
And wait I do.
For almost three hours.
The occasional vehicle passes by during that time, though they can’t see me where I’m wedged in the shadows of the boulders. None of them stop to check the Escalade. I managed to park it next to the ditch perpendicular to the lake before it thoroughly died, and unless you’re on the lesser-used road and really looking, the damage is hard to see. So when a vintage car with a rumbling engine approaches slowly and rolls to a halt next to my SUV, I notice right away. My heart thunders beneath my bones as I remain crouched between the rocks to watch.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown sender.
Here.
“Short and to the point,” I say to myself before pushing to my feet. My head spins a little and my legs seem wobbly at first, but I manage to keep my shit together as I approach the car.
The engine cuts out. I hold my bag to my body with one hand inside, my fingertips resting on the cold handle of the gun.
When I hesitate in the center of the road, the door creaks open and a man steps out, his muscular body sheathed in a black wet suit. A mask covers his face so that only his eyes and mouth are visible. His build is powerful but every movement is graceful as he approaches.
My hand tightens around the gun.
“Code,” he growls.
I rub my head with my free hand as I try to remember the numerical sequence that I’ve repeated to myself several times since my stepfather gave it to me. With this strange guy staring me down, it takes a moment longer to remember than it probably should. “Four, nine, seven, zero, six, two.”
I can barely see the man’s eyes in the moonless night, but I can feel them as they slide from my face to my toes and back again.
“Injured,” he half-whispers, as though he’s purposely trying to make it sound as though he’s swallowed gravel.
“What …?”
He strides closer. I back away but I don’t make it more than three steps before he’s caught my wrist. Thoughts of my gun evaporate as his palm warms my cool skin, his touch unyielding yet gentle as he flicks a flashlight on and points it at my hairline.
“Stitches,” is all he says.
“Okay … well, those weren’t readily available,” I reply.
This earns me a grunt, as though it’s my problem that I haven’t stitched up my own head wound.
I give my arm a swift tug but he holds on. My attempt to twist free of his grip is futile too—he only holds my wrist tighter before he shines the light in my left eye, then my right, then back again.
“Unconscious?” he asks.
When I narrow my eyes and crinkle my nose in an unvoiced question, he taps me on the head with his flashlight.
“Ouch—”
“Unconscious?” he says again, his tone commanding even though it’s barely more than a whisper.
“You mean, did I pass out? No.”
“Nauseous?”
“A little.”
“Concussed,” he declares, his voice a gritty stamp of two syllables. He drops my wrist as though I’m contagious and then turns away, striding toward the intersection where I sped through a stop sign to T-bone Jamie Merrick’s car.
I wobble after the man as he keeps the light pointed to the asphalt. He doesn’t tell me what he seems to be looking for, but I assume it’s pieces of the vehicles left behind from the impact.
“I’ve never had a concussion before. Could I fall into a coma?” I ask as I catch up to him, following close on his heels.
“No.”
“Do you think I have a brain bleed?”
“No.”
“But how do you know for sure? Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“Oh good, because your bedside manner sucks.”
The man scoffs but doesn’t turn around. When he lurches to an abrupt stop, I nearly face-plant into his back. I’m so close that I can smell the lingering scent of the sea on his wet suit. It doesn’t take much effort to imagine the broad span of muscle hiding beneath the thin layer of synthetic rubber that separates us. Should I be wondering if he also surfs, or what he might look like peeling off the saturated fabric at the beach? Probably not. But I am.
I pull my imagination away from picturing his irritatingly athletic body and focus instead on the slow sweep of his flashlight as it pans across the road from one ditch to the other and back again.
He points the light toward his feet and goes still, as though he’s been snared by a thought that won’t let him go.
And the longer he stands there, the easier it is to remember that he’s kind of a dick.
My mind might be a little disjointed and slow right now, but all too soon I come back around to the facts—this guy is a single-word asshole who’s dropped some unqualified, grunted diagnosis on me as though it’s totally nothing to worry about.
Concussed, he’d said.
“What if—”
“Drunk?” he snarls as he whirls on me.
I blink at him. Rage kindles in my chest. “Excuse me?”
“Drunk?”