Oh my God. The gallery. So many people talked to me at the gallery. By the end, I just waved and smiled and nodded no matter what they said. He steps close and I stumble back, almost tripping again. Adrenaline bursts into my legs and I turn to run, but he catches my sleeve, pulls me close enough to see the intensity in his eyes, and then the glint of metal in his hand.

“Time to go,” he says, taking my arm and hauling me to my feet.

“Go where?” My voice is shrill and panicked.

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll be together. We’ll be away, and you’ll see. I know you’ll see.”

I try to pull myself free, and he tugs back. We struggle in the snow, and I push against him with all of my might. My foot slips and I drop back to one knee. He slides around with a grunt, grabbing my other arm. I see that metal again.

The knife. Oh, shit, he has the knife, and it’s pressed right against my arm.

I arch my back and kick at his knees, but he easily avoids me, his fingers biting into my arms like teeth. The snow is so slippery. Cold. I writhe like a cat being held under water. I have to get him loose. Get him off me. I have to get away.

“Stop fighting me, Mira. Stop fighting this.”

I fight twice as hard. Three times. I kick and flail and jerk and then—I fall. We both do, the thin sheet of glazed-over snow cracking under our impact. His body is on mine—heavy and hard. I want him off. Off!

“Don’t fight me!” he cries.

I scream, using every bit of my energy to haul my body over to one side. Something pierces my bicep as I roll, and my scream could shatter glass. Josh loosens his grip, but the pain is an electric shock. Heat follows it, wet fire that pulses with my heart. I pull my uninjured hand up to the wound. My sleeve is wet. Snow or blood, I have no idea.

But Josh’s ashen expression tells me there’s at least some of the latter.

“Mira,” he breathes.

I kick him between the legs. Once. Twice. He’s down, keening when I kick him again, somewhere in the face. My arm is throbbing from shoulder to fingertips. My fingers are wet. Dripping dark splatters into the snow.

I reach for the knife that’s skittered a few feet away from him. My hand is slick with blood, but I grab it anyway.