the air?
Exhaust fumes.
My body tenses, but I can barely move more than an inch. Why is this so difficult? I grit my teeth, but even that gesture barely bunches my jaw.
Have to get out.
Have to breathe fresh air.
Or is it too late already? I feel like I’m underwater.
Carbon monoxide. It’s already filling my veins.
Candy!
No, I can’t think about her right now. I’m already on the cusp of succumbing to manic terror.
Calm.
I need to focus. Think this through.
Terrible thing to ask of a brain that’s slowly dying.
Can I move?
I concentrate all my effort on moving my hand away from my thigh. After a few seconds, it jerks to the side.
Yes. I can move.
My eyes are adjusting to the dark. I’m in an old Porsche Boxer that my dad keeps meaning to sell but never gets around to.
Just like he never got around to putting up a pool cover. Not that that would have stopped Emma, but—
You have to focus Jo.
I don’t know how much CO2 is in my system, or how much more I can handle before I cash out.
Candy’s dead.
But what if she’s dead already? What, exactly, would be the fucking point?
I don’t know that. But I know I’m running out of time. We’re running out of time.
The window is closed on my side. He’s run a garden hose through the opposite door’s window, leaving just a crack where he wedged it in. There should be fresh air outside the car, but to get to it, I have to wind down the window or open the door.
Opening the door makes more sense. I could fall out of the seat and crawl away.
But…opening the door requires more energy than just lifting my arm and pressing down on the button that’ll open the window. If I get it wound down enough, I could stick my head out and breathe fresh air.
While I’m trying to figure out what to do, I try lifting my arm up enough so that I can slide it onto the ridge where the door handle and the window button sits.
Even that seems too big a task.
I’m sweating icy bullets. Nausea lays like dirty oil in my stomach. Slowly, the fierce prickling in my fingers and toes starts dying.
Looks like the rest of the players have all folded, Jo.
Just you and Dad.
Winner takes all.
Christ, it’s already too late.
Then it comes to me like a ray of light breaking through a gap in the clouds.
Turn. Off. The. Ignition.
Except…I’m in the passenger seat.
My eyes swivel in their sockets and fix on the pair of keys dangling beside the steering wheel.
Will it be enough? Or am I better off trying to get out of the car?
It’s impossible to think straight with the fierce pounding in my head.
Key. Window. Door.
Key. Window. Door.
I’m losing my fucking mind trying to decide, and all the while, the car’s rumbling, rumbling, rumbling under me.
A shit hand, and no choice but to keep raising, right? For sure, I can’t fold.
I snarl and force my hand up onto the armrest with monumental effort. My face is slick with sweat—some of it trickles down my neck. Still grimacing, I push my hand forward and grab the edge of the door handle in its recessed trough.
My fingers slip away the moment I try and draw back the handle.
Fuck!
Again, but they slip.
Again.
I’m weakening. My arm threatens to slide off the armrest. I won’t be able to lift it up again. I’ll die here, just like Dad intended.
Taking the same way out as my mom.
Fitting.
Poetic, almost.
Who the fuck knew Dad was such a melodramatic poet?
Fuck it.
I’m going all in.
I shove my hand forward and press down on the window button.
For a second, nothing happens. But then the window hums as it starts descending.
Time stretches like an elastic band. Everything inside me tenses as the window moves down.
I expected a gust of cool air. Freshness.
I get warm, stuffy air instead.
As the window reaches halfway, I suddenly realize something that had been plaguing me since I regained consciousness.
The engine’s rumbling was too loud. I’ve driven this car—it’s got nothing on my Dad’s newer Merc.
Which is why I guess he wasn’t going to take any chances.
His car is parked less than a yard away.
And he left it on idle too.
Invisible poison gas fills the entire garage. When I opened the window, I’m sure even more billowed into the car.
That’s it, Jo.
Dad’s called it, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s got a royal flush.
What’ve you got, Jo?
Nothing.
Chapter Sixty
Candy
“Do you like that, baby girl? Do you like it