“Jesus.” Dean swings his head back and forth, scrubbing both palms over his face. “No wonder you’re still single.”

Oof. I let the barb sink its teeth in me, seeping into every pocket of vulnerability. He knows my weakest link. I think he gets off on toying with my insecurities and giving them life. “Screw you.” There is no teasing or playful banter—only animosity.

Dean glares at me.

I glare right back.

And then the sound of glass smashing against the side of my face is ringing in my ear, and I let out a scream. Two meaty hands wrap around my neck through the broken passenger’s side window, and I have no fucking idea what’s happening, but I keep screaming on instinct, pushing my feet against the door to keep him from pulling me out as my own hands claw at his arms.

“Cora!”

Dean is on me, over me, punching the guy and trying to release the bastard’s hold. I reach for Dean, clinging to his jacket, desperate not to leave this car, desperate not to be taken. I shout through the fear, choking and sputtering, “Drive!”

Dean is still trying to pry the hands from my neck. “I don’t have you!”

“Just… drive!”

My vision blurs as the fingers around my throat cling harder, but then one hand releases me and there is a moment of hope—maybe Dean hurt him, maybe Dean scared him away—but the other hand returns. It returns with a shiny piece of metal, and I think it’s a gun, oh God, I think it’s a gun.

More screams.

They are mine, I’m sure.

And then the butt of that gun collides with Dean’s head with a sickening thunk.

“No!” I shout, plead, beg. Dean falls across my lap like a ragdoll, and I feel myself being lifted from the seat and yanked through the window as shards of glass tear my dress and skin. “Let me go!”

A thick palm that smells like gasoline clamps over my mouth, stifling my cries, and when I glance up, my eyes widen.

It’s him.

The John Wayne Gacy look-a-like from outside the bar.

No.

My muffled sobs slip through the cracks of his fingers, and I keep fighting as he drags me across the gravel. My legs kick and flail, my nails digging into his fleshy arms until they bleed.

Then I open my mouth as much as I can and bite down.

Hard.

The man wails in pain as blood seeps from his finger wound, and I try to make a break for it. I pull free for a moment, for just a moment, before something strikes the back of my head…

… and everything goes dark.

Chapter Two

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I’m dreaming.

I’m dreaming about the ocean.

We went to Disneyland when I was eight-years-old—me, Mandy, Mom, and Dad. I’d been so excited. I wanted to put my toes in the salty sea for as long as I could remember. We rented a car and made the drive out to the Pacific ocean one afternoon, and I can still recall the way my heart was beating inside my chest with wild abandon when the ocean came into view. I pictured Ariel and her sea sisters swimming beneath the surface.