Tomasetti hit one hundred miles per hour on Highway 62 just out of Brinkhaven. He knew it wouldn’t look good if some local yokel stopped him. He wasn’t in the best mental state, thanks to Kate. That wasn’t to mention the booze he’d sucked down earlier. He wasn’t sure what his blood alcohol level might be, but it was probably over the limit. He had his badge to back him up, but with some cops that only went so far.

The panic attack came out of nowhere. One moment he was putting the pedal to the metal, concentrating on his driving, on making time, on reaching Kate. The next moment, it was as if a giant hand reached into his chest and squeezed all the oxygen from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. His brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought. The only thing he could discern was the grip of a fear so primal he honestly believed it might kill him.

Gasping for breath, Tomasetti backed off the accelerator. He gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache. The Tahoe slowed. He tried to look for a rest area or exit, but there was nothing on this particular stretch of road, so he pulled into the bar ditch. The truck bumped over something, but Tomasetti was too far gone to discern what it was. He could hear himself gasping now. The sounds tearing from his throat reminded him of a wild animal in the throes of death. The hand squeezed his chest, twisted his lungs into knots. He couldn’t draw a breath. His face went numb. Darkness encroached on his peripheral vision. He was going to pass out. Pain streaked up the center of his chest.

“Fuck,” he choked out. “Fuck!”

Shoving open the door, Tomasetti stumbled from the truck. Vaguely, he was aware insects flying in the headlights. The flicker of lightning on the horizon. Terror like he’d never felt before turning him inside out.

A few feet from the truck, he went to his knees. He couldn’t believe the sounds coming from his mouth. Whimpers. Choking gasps. He fell forward, his hands plunging into wet grass. Mud squeezed between his fingers. Soaked into his slacks at his knees. Panic was like some small, clawed animal trapped inside him, tearing at his guts, trying to claw its way out for air.

Tomasetti didn’t try to get up. It took every bit of effort he possessed to draw a breath. But his chest was too tight. Someone drawing a rope ever tighter, cutting off his oxygen.