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is the most perfect sound.

He jerks the wheel, an involuntary movement that nearly

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sends us into a tailspin down the mountain. Choking, he

fi ghts 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 fi ngertip between the zip tie and his

neck, and my arms are trembling with the effort of resist-

ing 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 fl inch from the fl ying glass, jerk-

ing 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 boul-

ders blurring as our speed picks up and I know it’s over.

The end.

Third time’s the charm.

60

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 fi ll 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 fi lling.

I rip my jacket off , press it against her chest where the dark wet-

ness 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 shoul-

der, half-convinced he’s lurking somewhere, waiting to fi nish 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 fi ngers, through the denim

of my jacket.

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F A R F R O M Y O U

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 fore-

head, 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 lift s her hand, clumsily drags it toward mine. I

twist our fi ngers 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.

61

NOW (JUNE)

I smell the smoke fi rst. Then charred metal and gasoline,

the tang fi lling 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.

I squint down at my bound hands, trying to focus as the

wetness drips down my chin, splattering red on my arm.

Blood.

It hurts. I realize it between one shaky breath and

another. Everything hurts.

Oh, God.

My legs. Do they work?

I push forward with my good one, and it hurts,
it hurts
,

and I never thought it’d feel so good to hurt that much, but

pain is good. Pain means I’m not paralyzed. That I’m still

alive.

Is Adam? I try to push myself up to see, but the ringing

in my ears grows louder as I lean forward through the gap

between the seats. I tilt my head up, trying to get a good

look at him, slumped over the steering wheel. His dark hair

is matted with blood on one side, and his chest is rising and

falling steadily.

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F A R F R O M Y O U

I have to get out of here before he comes to.

My mind’s made up in a second. I hook the edge of the

zip tie around the jagged edge of the broken window, saw-

ing it back and forth until it snaps. My hands free, I grab

the door handle, trying to push it open, but it’s jammed.

The ringing sound’s getting louder, like someone’s

turned up the volume on me, and underneath the insistent

tones, there’s a moaning.

Adam begins to stir in the front seat, and I try the oppo-

site door handle, my heart pounding as more blood dribbles

down my cheek. This door’s also too mangled to open, so

I heave myself up and out of the broken window. The fi t’s

tight, and glass digs into my stomach as I push myself

forward, but I keep going, pitching headfi rst, almost som-

ersaulting out of the car. I hit the forest fl oor with a thump,

my shoulders tightening as pain fl ares down my back.

The car had gone straight down the embankment, the

hood crumpled like ribbon candy. Smoke is rising off the

engine, choking me, and I cough weakly, something sharp

knifi ng through my ribs.

I stumble up to standing, unsteady on shaky legs, and

look around. We’ve ended up in a fl atter area, but there are

trees looming everywhere. Deep forest spreads ahead of

me on all sides. I want to get the gun and my phone, but

I don’t see either of them in the car, and I don’t have time

to look—I’ve got to go. Leaves and branches crackle under-

neath my feet. The full moon is climbing in the sky, its light

illuminating the forest.

I have to move. I forge ahead, my bad leg dragging in the

T E S S S H A R P E

305

dirt, catching on rocks and branches, leaving a trail a mile

wide, dotted with blood. Even with the moonlight, it’s hard

to see. I stumble, falling to my knees, my palms scraping

the dirt as I push myself back up.

Getting back up the embankment isn’t an option. Not

like this, not with my bad leg, and not with my good one,

which is trembling almost as badly.

Hiding’s the only option.

The trees thicken as I limp farther into the woods as fast

as I can, weaving between the pines as the smoky smell

from the crash starts to fade into the dark scents of earth

and water, a stronger tang of copper sharpening the breeze.

My stomach’s wet; my shirt’s heavy with blood, slapping

against my belly with each movement. I don’t have to look

down to see the darkness of blood spreading. The cuts on

my stomach are shallow but long; they sting with each

breath I take, along with the pain in my ribs. But I keep

moving. I have to keep moving as fast as I can.

For what feels like forever, it’s just me and my harsh

breathing and each step crushingly loud in my ears, hurt-

ing, hurting, hurting, and wondering if it’s going to be my

last. If I’m going to fall.

I collapse behind a group of boulders before my leg

gives out, panting at the effort it takes to lower myself to the

ground. My eyes droop shut, and I force them open again.

I have to stay conscious. I have to focus.

I have to stay alive.

I curl myself up, my knees tucked up near my chin, try-

ing to make myself as small as possible, pressing against

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F A R F R O M Y O U

the solid rock. It hurts, makes me bite my lip hard, but I

power through it, my ribs throbbing with each breath.

When I hear the footsteps, quick and solid through the

brush, my heart leaps, my muscles seize up, and everything

in me says
run, run, run
. It’s a death sentence, I know that,

but I’m hardwired for fi ght or fl ight, even though I can’t do

either.

I quiet my breathing and focus on the footfalls—are they

coming toward me or heading away?

The crunching suddenly stops. I bend farther into

myself, every muscle shrinking, as a deep voice in the dis-

tance, laced with panic, breaks the silence of the forest.

“Adam? Adam? Where the fuck are you?” More footsteps,

closer now.

Heading toward me.

Now there’s a snapping sound, someone thrashing

through the underbrush.

Two sets of footsteps, coming from different directions:

one sure and steady, the other stumbling, injured.

Matt and Adam. I curl up tighter, dread settling in my

bones.

“Adam!”
They’ve found each other. They’re still a good

twenty feet away, but I can hear them.

“Did you see her?” Adam’s slurring his words. He must

be really hurt.

Good. I hope he bleeds to death.

“See who? What the hell happened? That car . . . Your

head! We need to get you to the hospital!” Matt’s voice,

urgent, almost angry, sounds strange.

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307

“
No!
We gotta fi nd her! She knows everything. We gotta

stop her before . . . before . . .”

“What are you talking about? Let’s go!”

“
No, listen.
She
knows
.”

“Knows what? Who? Come on, let’s move it!”

The footsteps start up again, and the voices are getting

closer. Too late for me to move now. I cringe against the

rock, wishing it’d swallow me up.

“I didn’t tell anyone.” Adam’s babbling, his words jum-

bled together. “All these years, I never told anyone. But I

saw her get into your truck that day. I know what you did

to Jackie. But I didn’t tell anyone; not even Mom or Matt.

I thought it would be okay. But then Mina started asking

questions. I had to stop her—I
had
to.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt’s voice growls,

incredulous.