on the plunger. “Gina is two miles west, about fifty yards from the fire road. I always did like a fire road.”
Sara said the last word that he would ever hear. “Salad.”
Brock looked confused, but his thumb was already pressing down the plunger. The brown liquid shot into his vein. His mouth dropped opened. His pupils constricted.
“Oh,” he gasped, surprised by the rush.
By the time Will busted down the door, Brock was dead.
29
Gina felt something wet hitting her face. She thought a dog was pissing on her, then she thought she was in the shower, then she remembered that she was in the woods.
Her eyes opened.
The trees swayed overhead. Dark clouds. Still daylight. A drop of rain tapped against her eyeball.
Her eyes were open!
She blinked. Then she blinked again to prove that she could do it. She was controlling her eyes. She was looking up, seeing things. It was daylight. She was alone. He wasn’t here.
She had to leave!
Gina thought about the muscles in her stomach. The—the abs. The six-pack. The eight-pack. What was wrong with her? Why did her only knowledge of stomach muscles come from Jersey Shore?
For fucksakes.
He was going to come back. He had told her that he would be back.
She clenched her muscles. All of them. Every single streaky slab in her body. She opened her mouth. She screamed as loud as she could, as long as she could, one single word.
“Go!”
Her body flopped onto its side. She had no idea how she had managed to turn, but she had managed to turn, so she could probably manage other things.
But she was so tired.
And so dizzy that the world flipped upside down.
Vomit spewed up her throat. The pain from clenching her stomach was a razor inside her body. She couldn’t stop vomiting. The smell made her feel sicker. Her face was in it. She sniffed it up her nose. It was blue with specks of black. She was vomiting blue.
A moan came out of her throat. She sniffed. The chunk of vomit in her nose slid back down her throat.
She closed her eyes.
Don’t close your eyes!
She saw her hand in the puddle of vomit. Close to her face. She could smell it. Taste it. She watched her fingers move through the thick, blue lumps. She was going to stand. She knew how to stand. She could feel everything now. Every nerve in her body was alive and on fire.
The pain …
She couldn’t let the pain stop her. She had to move. She needed to get out of here. He was going to come back. He had promised he would come back.
He had begged her to wait for him.
Move! Move! Move!
She tried to push herself up. Knees on the ground. A girl pushup. She could do this. Her head was pounding. Her heart rolled like a wheel. Her eyelids fluttered. She was so tired.
She heard footsteps.
Move, dammit, move!
She saw shoes. Black Nikes. Black swoops. Black pants.
He was going to rape her.
He was going to rape her.
Again.
She squeezed her eyes closed.
Don’t drink it. Spit it up. Run.
She heard the punch of his knees hitting the ground as he knelt down beside her.
His fingers pressed open her eyelids. He was making her look at him. She had tried so hard not to see his face, to be able to honestly tell him that she had no idea what he looked like, that she wouldn’t tell the police, that she could not identify him, that he could trust her because she would never tell and now he was making her, forcing her, to look at his face.
She felt her eyes roll wildly, like a rabid dog, as she looked at the ground, the vomit, the trees, anything but his face.
“Gina Vogel?” the man said.
Her eyes moved of their own accord. He was younger than she had thought. He was wearing a black baseball cap. She saw the word above the brim. Bright white letters stitched against the black.
POLICE.
“Wha—” she croaked. Her throat was too sore. From the cold. From the stuff he was making her drink. From the vomit.
From him.
“You’re going to be okay,” POLICE told her. “I’m going to stay with you until the ambulance comes.”
He wrapped a blanket around her body. She couldn’t sit up. She was so dizzy. Light kept flashing in her eyes. So many lights. Her brain was like that turny thing inside of a police light, swirling and swirling, occasionally catching reality, then just as quickly letting it slip away.
“The man who did this