EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW
Chapter 1
THE COLD NIGHT pressed against the windows of the '65 Mustang like a warning.
Wind funneled down the empty streets, pushing trash in spirals and howling low through the alleys like a wounded thing. The city beyond the windshield flickered like a dying signalâSanta Rosa, jagged and hostile, its skyline stitched together by broken neon and empty promises.
Nadine Singh hunched over the wheel, dark hair hanging in greasy strands that hadnât seen shampoo in days. The cracked vinyl seat stuck to her back through a sweat-damp shirt, every movement peeling her from the upholstery like dead skin.
Her knuckles were bone-white on the wheel, tendons standing out like cables under strain. The engine idled with a predatorâs purr, daring her to make a move.
She hadnât eaten in two days. Maybe three. Time had become elastic, meaningless. The last thing in her stomach was a vending machine coffee from a rest stop outside Amarilloâbitter, burnt, and laced with chemicals that still turned her insides sour.
Her mouth tasted like copper pennies and desperation.
But it wasn't hunger gnawing at her.
It was the fear.
Not fear of dying. That would've been easy. A relief, even.
This fear was older. The kind that clung to your spine like cold sweat and whispered during the darkest hours before dawn: youâve crossed the line nowâand thereâs no going back.
She wiped a trembling hand across her forehead, feeling the salt sting of old sweat mixed with new panic.
She checked the rearview mirror.
No sirens. No headlights. Just the vast, empty dark behind her. And aheadâmore of the same uncertainty.
The sign blinked to life in the distance like a curse: BENNYâS LIQUOR.
A neon clown with a cracked smile clutched a bottle like a weapon. Red tears glowed in his eyes, casting bloody shadows across the asphalt beside a faded slogan: Raise your spirits.
Nadine didnât smile. Joy was a foreign concept, something remembered from another lifetime.
To the world, she was Maria Santos. No one knew her real name except Sister Anita, who had named her as an infant. There was something clean about that name: Nadine Singh.
One day sheâd reclaim it. But tonight, she wouldnât drag it through the gutter of what sheâd become over the last six yearsâor what she planned to do in the next six minutes.
She killed the headlights and coasted into the shadow beside the dumpster.
The Mustang hissed as it cooled, metal contracting with sharp pops that sounded like distant gunfire. Her breath fogged the windshield, each exhale another ghost she didn't want to see.
She sat motionless, fingers locked on the wheel, staring at that grotesque sign.
Then she reached for the glovebox.