Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
The impact is catastrophic. Metal screeches. Glass shatters. Something hot hits my back as I crouch down with my hands over my head.
I don't stay to check if they survived. The angle of the car's crumpled hood tells me everything I need to know.
Ignoring the burning pain shooting through my shoulder, I scramble back up to the road, half crawling, half climbing over the broken guardrail. My breath comes in harsh pants, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I stagger back to my car, nearly falling into the driver's seat. My hands leave bloody prints on the steering wheel as I pull back onto the road, tires spinning on the loose gravel.
I drive in a daze, pure instinct taking over. Get on the highway. Keep to the speed limit. Don't attract attention.
Two hours pass in a blur of concrete and guardrails, the rhythm of the road a dull counterpoint to the throbbing pain across my back. Eventually, the insistent sting becomes too much to ignore, and I pull off at a desolate gas station—the kind with a single pump and a bathroom key attached to a splintered wooden block.
Inside the grimy bathroom, I peel off my jacket, twist to look at my reflection in the cloudy mirror. There's a jagged gash running diagonally across my shoulder blade, still oozing blood, probably from flying debris when the car hit. It looks worse than it is, I think.
I clean it as best I can with rough paper towels and water that smells vaguely of sulfur. It stings like a motherfucker, but pain is an old friend. I've had worse. Will have worse again, probably.
As I press a damp towel to the wound, I feel that familiar shifting sensation—like the ground tilting beneath my feet, the world receding behind a curtain.
No. No. No. Not now.
"Stay away," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I need more time."
But it's already happening. The bathroom blurs around me, edges softening, colors fading. I grab the sink to steady myself as my consciousness begins to slide sideways, making room for her.
My last thought is of Domhnall—of his face when he finds my letter. The way he looked at me last night, like I was something worth saving.
I'm sorry, I think as darkness closes in. I'm so fucking sorry.
And then I'm gone.
SEVENTEEN
ANNA
One second I'm nowhere, and the next I'm staring at my bloody hands under flickering fluorescent lights.
"What the—" I gasp, disoriented and dizzy.
The bathroom around me is filthy—cracked tiles, yellowed sink, air thick with the smell of cheap bleach and something worse underneath. My reflection in the cloudy mirror shows a stranger—wild-eyed, hair tangled, blood streaked across my cheek.
I spin around, trying to understand where I am, and a sharp pain rips through my back. When I reach over my shoulder, my fingers come away red and wet.
"What the fuck," I whisper, pulling up my shirt to see a long, jagged cut across my shoulder blade. It's still bleeding sluggishly, the skin around it already darkening to a deep purple. "What did she do this time?"
My heart races as I try to piece together what happened. Last thing I remember was New Year's Eve. Domhnall and I—no, Domhnall and Mads—kissing as the clock struck midnight. Then nothing until now.
I grab a handful of rough paper towels and wet them in the sink, biting my lip against the sting as I try to clean the wound. The water running off my back swirls pink down the drain.
"Focus, Anna," I tell myself, voice shaking. "Find out where you are first."
I finish cleaning up as best I can and step outside, blinking in the harsh sunlight. I'm at some decrepit gas station in the middle of nowhere. A single ancient pump stands in front of a faded convenience store. There's not another building in sight, just empty fields stretching to the horizon.
And there, parked haphazardly by the side of the building, is my car.
I walk toward it slowly, my stomach dropping as I get closer. The back bumper is crumpled, the trunk dented, and there's a long scratch down one side like someone took a key to it.
"What the hell happened?" I mutter, circling the car in horror. It looks like it's been in an accident—or several.
When I open the trunk to look for the first aid kit I know is there, I freeze.
A suitcase. Packed and zipped up tight.
With trembling hands, I pull it out, set it on the ground, and pop it open. Inside are clothes, toiletries, cash—a lot of cash—and a passport I've never seen before. With my face but a different name.
"She was leaving," I whisper, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "She was running away."
Rage flares hot and sudden, burning away the confusion.
That bitch was just going to disappear. Take our body and leave without a word. Leave Domhnall. Leave our life.