He looked down the road. His face paled in the amber glow. “Oh God. There he is.”

I took a breath, holding it. “Peter,” I said, desperate. I couldn’t turn back. I couldn’t slow down. I had to do this. The shadows from the girders seemed to flash faster. “Peter!”

“I’m scared.”

I looked over the cars to the white truck heading for us. I could see Nick, Peter’s doppelganger disguise gone and the legal one in place. Hand fumbling, I found Peter’s. It was damp with sweat, and he clutched it with the strength of a frightened child. “I’ll be here,” I said, breathless and unable to look from the looming truck. What was I doing?

“Please don’t let me burn when the tanks explode? Please, Rachel?”

My head hurt. I couldn’t breathe. “I won’t let you burn,” I said, tears making my face cold. “I’ll stay with you, Peter. I promise. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll stay until you go, I’ll be there when you leave so you won’t be forgotten.” I was babbling. I didn’t care. “I won’t forget you, Peter. I’ll remember you.”

“Tell Audrey that I love her, even if I don’t remember why.”

The last car between us was gone. I took a breath and held it. My eyes were fixed on the truck’s tires. They shifted. “Peter!”

It happened fast.

The truck veered across the temporary line. My feet slammed into the breaks, self-preservation taking control. I stiffened my arm, clenching the wheel and Peter’s hand both.

Nick’s truck swerved. It loomed before us, the flat panel of the side taking up the entire world. He was trying to get entirely across the lane and miss me. I spun the wheel, teeth gritted and terrified. He was trying to miss me. He was trying to hit the passenger side only.

The truck smashed into us like a wrecking ball. My head jerked forward, and I gasped before the inertia-dampening curse took hold. I couldn’t breathe as the air bag hit my face like a wet pillow, hurting. Relief filled me, then guilt that I was safe while Peter. Oh God, Peter…

Heart pounding, I felt as if I was wrapped in muzzy cotton. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see. But I could hear. The sound of squealing tires was swallowed by the terrifying shriek of twisting metal. I managed a breath, a ragged gasp in my throat. My stomach lurched, and the world spun as the momentum swung us around.

Pushing at the oil-scented plastic, I forced it away. We were still spinning, and terror shocked through me as the Mack truck plowed into the temporary guardrail and into the empty northbound lanes. Our vehicle shook as we hit something and came to a spine-wrenching halt.

I pushed the bag down, fighting it, shaking, blinking in the sound of nothing. It was smeared with red, and I looked at my hands. They were red. I was bleeding. Blood slicked them where my nails had cut through my palms. Yes, I thought numbly, seeing the gray sky and dark water. That’s what the hands of a murderer should look like.