In fact, close to one-sixth of her Situations had ended with her own untimely demise. She’d run into flaming buildings and jumped in front of bullets meant for those she loved, and she’d died of leukemia and gotten hit by cars—loads of them, as ironic as that was. But she’d just never imagined going out like this. More whimper than bang. Desperate. Hypnotized. Her assailant’s fingers brushing lightly against her throat. I don’t want to die. He’s going to kill me, and I don’t want to die. His hands encircled her neck. She froze, paralyzed. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. And then, suddenly, it was over. He dropped his hands instead of tightening his grip. She wasn’t dead. It’s not death I want. The thought came unbidden, a side effect of her relief. I want him. I want the boy. Okay, that was it. That was absolutely it! This sick, twisted psycho was playing with her. He’d attacked her, he’d kidnapped her, he’d sworn he was going to kill her, and now he was playing with her.
