Contents ( 64)
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- INTERLUDE
- THREE
- FOUR
- INTERLUDE
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- INTERLUDE
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- INTERLUDE
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- INTERLUDE
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY-ONE
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY-TWO
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- INTERLUDE
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- INTERLUDE
- THIRTY-ONE
- INTERLUDE
- THIRTY-TWO
- INTERLUDE
- THIRTY-THREE
- INTERLUDE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- INTERLUDE
- FORTY-ONE
- About the Author
- Acknowledgments
- CHUCK WENDIG in conversation with Adam Christopher
He doesn't move, but he tightens up. Every muscle pulled taut to bone.
"You think you're going to kill me?" he asks. "That what you think?"
She clucks her tongue. "No, sir, I do not think that. I'm not the killer type. I'm more passive aggressive than aggressive. I'm a wait and see kind of girl. More vulture than falcon."
They stare at each other. She feels scared and sick and a little excited.
Click.
The 0 flips to 1.
"You want to hit me again," she says.
"I just might."
"You think, I'll hit her again, and then I'll fuck her like she deserves – that's of course provided you can get Little Dale Junior to race. I saw the dick pills in your glove compartment. Next to the OxyContin."
"You shut the hell up."
She holds up a finger. "Let me ask you one question, though. You hit your wife and daughters?"
He hesitates. She's not sure what that means. Does it mean he feels guilty about it? Or that he'd never consider touching a hair on their pretty little heads and would die if they found out?
"At this point," she says, "it's not like it matters. I'm mostly just curious. You bang hookers and punch them in their faces, so we've already established that you're not gonna win Father of the Year. I'm just trying to feel out the depth of your character–"
He lets out a frustrated whoop and swings at her – a clumsy, wide throw, telegraphed loud and clear like his body was using a bullhorn. Miriam leans back. The fist catches the air in front of her nose, whiff.
She stabs a heel out and catches him in the balls.
He staggers backward, buttbone thunking against the wall, moaning, grabbing.
"You only get one freebie with me," she hisses. "Swing and a miss, asshole."
Click.
The time is now 12.42.
"One minute," she says, easing off the bed.
He still doesn't get it. They never do.
"Shut up," he whimpers. "You fuckin' whore."
"This is how it's going to go. Any second now, we're going to hear a car honking out in the parking lot–"
A car honks outside. Once, then twice, then a third time when the driver lays on the horn just to get the message across.
Del looks from Miriam to the window, then back again. She's seen the look before. It's the look of a caged animal. He doesn't know where to go, where to run, but the truth is, he can't run anywhere. He's trapped. What he can't understand is how, or why.
"What comes next, you ask?" She snaps her fingers. "Somewhere, outside, someone starts yelling. Maybe it's the car honking guy. Maybe it's the dude the car honking guy was honking at. Who cares? Because…"
She lets her words trail off, only to be replaced by someone yelling out in the parking lot. The words were indecipherable, just a muted, Neanderthal rant.
Del's eyes go wide.