Chapter 2: The Handle Turned Slowly
I couldn't fall apart.
Not here.
Not now.
I pressed my back against the wall and forced myself to breathe.
The dr*gs were pulling at me like a current, but rage was stronger.
I thought of my father.
My mother.
The mountains.
The brake failure Flynn had described so casually, like it was a dinner reservation.
I had maybe four hours.
I made it back to the suite and locked the door.
My hands shook as I searched the nightstand — the pills Flynn had been giving me every night, lined up neatly in a small silver case.
I photographed them with my phone.
Then I opened the safe.
The power of attorney was there.
My signature.
My handwriting.
On a document I had never seen before in my life.
My legs nearly gave out.
I heard footsteps in the corridor.
Then Flynn's voice, just outside the door — low, unhurried, speaking to someone on his phone.
"She's out.
Hasn't moved in two hours.
We're on schedule."
A pause.
"No.
No loose ends.
Not her parents, not the lawyer, not anyone."
The footsteps stopped directly outside my door.
May you like
I stopped breathing.
The handle turned slowly.
