Cover

Dedication

For P — love always, M

1

Eastville Projects, 2:59am

Francine Donohue slipped out of bed and grabbed her gun from the top of the nightstand. What in the hell was that? With her finger poised on the trigger, she glanced around the room but couldn’t see much in the darkness.

It sounded like a door slamming. She was sure of it.

She waited for another minute, remaining still, alert. Prepared. Listening hard for anything more.

The only sound was her pulse thumping, echoing in her ears. Every nerve stood on edge as she peered around the dark room. Her gaze lingered on shadowy outlines of suitcases she’d packed just hours ago. She listened again. All was quiet and she breathed deeply, trying to calm down.

In the last couple of days, she’d been jumping at every noise. The slam must have come from the apartment next door. Goddamn neighbors again, either drunk or high, always fighting, always smashing something. It never ends.

Francine checked the time. The numbers on the clock flashed from 2:59 to 3:00am. In a few hours she would finally be out of this hellhole.

Even though everything seemed all right, she couldn’t relax. She crossed the room to the door and quietly pulled it open, hesitated for a second, then stepped out into the hallway.

She moved slowly, her hand tight on the gun, turning on lights and carefully checking each room. In the kitchen, she parted the curtains above the sink and looked out from her first-floor window. Several cars were parked on the street. A lone neighbor had the lights on. No one was outside. No one was in her apartment. Everything was fine.

She walked back into her bedroom and shut the door behind her, locking it this time. She looked at the suitcases again and thought of leaving now, but was just too exhausted to start a long drive.

For the last thirty-six hours she’d been anxious and awake, drifting off for only momentary reprieves. Delirium was setting in. She had to hold it together. Things were going as planned so far and she just had to keep her head straight. A few hours of sleep, that’s all she needed. As she got into bed, she slipped the gun under her pillow this time.

Francine didn’t even remember closing her eyes when the sound of another slam dragged her out of a deep sleep. This time she didn’t jump. She couldn’t. Her hand darted under the pillow for the gun, but her fingers fumbled, sliding off the handle as she tried to grasp it.

What the hell? She struggled to lift herself, but could only get partway up. Her body felt strange, heavy, as if she was trying to move through thick mud. Every movement was a chore, an exertion that was becoming more difficult by the second. Then suddenly her body froze, and she slumped, falling back on the bed.