Tess Sharpe - Far From You

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, his free hand going back to the gun. The car speeds up, winding down the mountain road. We’re almost to Pioneer Rock. I can see the light from the ranger’s station across the lake out the back window.

“You know this is crazy,” I tell him. “You took my car. ­People at the party are going to notice both of us are gone. Kyle sent you to watch me; he’ll notice.”

“Do you really think Kyle sent me after you?” Adam says. “Come on, Sophie. You’re smarter than that. Now, you’re gonna tell me who’s been helping you. I know about Trev. What’s the redhead’s name? Did you mix her and Kyle up in this? And the reporter? What did you say to him?”

I have to breathe deeply to keep from panicking. Remind myself that Trev is probably still with the cops. That Rachel and Kyle are safe in a crowd of people.

It’s just me who’s dead.

“What are you gonna do, Adam? Kill all of them, too?” I ask shakily. “You aren’t thinking this through. You thought it through before. I know you did. You were prepared last time. You brought the rebar and the pills so you wouldn’t have to kill me. That was smart. It worked, didn’t it? But you’re not ready this time, so why don’t you just think for a second?”

“Shut up.” Adam wipes fresh sweat off his face with a shaking hand. But as soon as he touches the gun again, his fingers steady, like the feel of it comforts him. “You’re gonna tell me everything you know. About Jackie. About Mina. And about who knows what you know. I’ll make you.”

There’s no reasoning with him. He’s going to kill me no matter what.

We round a curve, passing by another sign: PIONEER ROCK VISTA POINT (1 MILE).

I can’t waste another second—I need a plan. Now.

If I can’t calm him down, I might as well make him angry. Make him lose control, slip up. I need a window of opportunity.

“I’m not telling you shit,” I say, with a lot more strength than I’ve got. “You’re a fucking murderer, and so is your brother. Your whole family—there’s something wrong with you.”

In profile, I can see Adam’s pretty-boy face twist, the mean gleam in his eyes a stark contrast. His hand tightens on the gun. “Fuck you,” he growls between gritted teeth. “You don’t know shit about my family. We look out for each other. We rely on each other. We’d kill for each other. That’s what family does.”

It fills me, the anger, trampling every other feeling in its power. He took away the most important person in my life and he’s sitting there with a gun, ready to kill me, lecturing me about family . I want to throw myself at him. I want him writhing on the ground, want him to feel what she felt. I want him bleeding while I watch and laugh and refuse to call the ambulance until it’s too late.

I want him dead. Even if I have to do it myself.

The idea surges through me, giving me strength, and I push up on my knees on the backseat and lurch forward, clumsy with the drug and adrenaline. I manage to loop my bound arms around his neck; the edge of the zip tie bites into his windpipe, and I pull back with all the force I’ve got.

His cut-off gasp, stifled instantly by the zip tie, is the most perfect sound.

He jerks the wheel, an involuntary movement that nearly sends us into a tailspin down the mountain. Choking, he fights back, scrabbling to hook his free hand between my wrists as we swerve across the narrow two-lane road. Any second, we’ll veer off the pavement, down the red clay cliff on one side or tumbling into the lake on the other—and I don’t care. I don’t care. I hope we crash. It’ll be worth it, as long as he’s dead, too.

“Soph—” he gurgles, frantically clawing at me with his free hand, his blunt nails digging into my skin.

I lock my arms, muscles straining as I pull back as hard as I can. He’s wedged a fingertip between the zip tie and his neck, and my arms are trembling with the effort of resisting him. He’s so much stronger than I am, but if I can just hold out…

The gunshot splits the air, and the windshield implodes in a shower of shards. I flinch from the flying glass, jerking back, and suddenly Adam’s hands aren’t on the wheel anymore. One’s holding the gun and the other��s pinning my wrists, and the car’s spinning, too fast, too close to the safety rail. I have one second, one hysterical breath to take in before metal screeches and sparks, and we’re through the guard rail and racing down the slope, trees and boulders blurring as our speed picks up and I know it’s over. The end.

Third time’s the charm.

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

I wake to the sound of Mina dying. A death rattle.

“Mina, oh my God, Mina .” I crawl over to her; it’s like I’m moving underwater.

She’s lying on her back a foot away, bathed in the light from the car’s brights and the blood, her blood, has already stained the dirt around her. Her hands rest against her chest, and her eyes are barely open.

There’s blood everywhere. I can’t even tell where the bullets went in. “Okay, okay,” I say, words that have no meaning, just to fill the air, to drown out the sound of her breath, the way it comes too fast and shuddery, wet at the end, like her lungs are already filling.

I rip my jacket off, press it against her chest where the dark wetness keeps spreading. I have to stop the blood.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“No, no, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.” I look over my shoulder, half convinced he’s lurking somewhere, waiting to finish us off.

But he’s gone.

She coughs, and when blood trickles out of her mouth, I wipe it away with my hand. “I’m so sorry, Sophie,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to be. It’s okay.” I press harder into her chest with both hands. “It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.”

But the blood bubbles up against my fingers, through the denim of my jacket.

How can there be this much blood? How much can she lose before…

She swallows, a convulsive movement, and when she breathes out, more red stains her mouth. “Hurts,” she says.

When I reach out with one hand to smooth the hair off her forehead, I leave a trail of blood behind. All I can think about is that time in third grade. She fainted when I cut my arm open so badly I needed stitches; she didn’t like blood. I want to hide it from her now, but I can’t. I can see it in her eyes, that she knows what’s happening, the thing I can’t accept.

“It’s okay,” I say again. I swear it, when I have no right to.

“Sophie…” She lifts her hand, clumsily drags it toward mine. I twist our fingers together, hold on tight.

I won’t let her go.

“Soph—”

Her chest rises with one last jagged breath and then she exhales gently, her body going still, her eyes losing their light, their focus on me dimming as I watch. Her head leans to the side, her grip slowly loosening in mine.

“No, no, no!” I shake her, pound against her chest. “Wake up, Mina. Come on, wake up!” I tilt her head back and breathe into her mouth. Over and over, until I’m drenched in sweat and blood. “No, Mina! Wake up! ”

I hold her tight against my shoulder and scream in the darkness, begging for help.

Wakeupwakeupwakeuppleasepleaseplease.

No help comes.

It’s just her and me.

Mina’s skin gets colder by the minute.

I still don’t let her go.

NOW (JUNE)

I smell the smoke first. Then charred metal and gasoline, the tang filling the air, sharp in my nose. There’s a rhythmic ringing in my head, growing louder and louder. I blink, but something spills into my eyes, moisture that I smear off my face.