The last thing Shame said—my name. I spun as an explosion of pain tore through me. Bullet. I staggered, but it wasn’t a hand that caught me. It was a knife. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow around the pain. Blood pumped from my throat, hot and slick, down my chest. He’d slit my throat. Someone had slit my throat. The shock of that couldn’t penetrate the horror I was already grappling with. Shame was dying, right there on our kitchen floor. For a slow, terrifying moment, I sifted the possibilities. Who could break into our home without us noticing? Who would know we would both be here together? Then I heard his voice and knew who was behind me: Eli Collins. We’d spent so much time looking for him, but he’d always known right where we would be. In Portland. Together. I don’t know why he’d waited so long to attack.
