03

The October air is colder than I remembered, sharp against my bare skin. Regret swells up in me―stupid slutty pumpkin costume. It is freezing.

This early in the morning, Santa Monica is the pale blue-gray of an hour after dawn. There are no birds on the street full of mansions. Expensive cars line up and down the street, and I suddenly remember I don’t have the keys to Lindsay’s Toyota.

Quiet―the neighbourhood is too quiet.

As though it’s holding its breath. As though it’s waiting.

« I don’t― » I begin, but Veah leads me to a silver Porsche.

My mouth falls open.

Across the street, I see a flicker of movement. A silhouette, watching us from the backseat of a car.

« Is this yours ? » I breathe. There is no way she could afford this as a student―unless she has family money. But she didn’t strike me as the elitist, rich brand of old wealth.

At the end of a block, I see an Asian mother pushing along a stroller. She is on the phone, but as she passes us, she pauses ever so briefly.

Imagining―I must be imagining things.

« Not even close, » Veah says, and with a smooth click, the door opens. I don’t have it in me to care about the morals and ethics of car theft―I just climb in through the driver’s seat and into the passenger side.

It doesn’t occur to me to ask her if she can drive until she starts the car.

The engine revvs, loud enough to startle the birds out of the streets.

« Hey . . . » I start, but with a surge of power, the car squeals forward.

This time, it is unmistakable. As I look back through the mirror, I see a man sitting on a bench look directly at us. He is wearing sunglasses in October, and he looks over them.

I know he can’t possibly see me, and yet . . .

There is no time to worry about it. Veah’s sharp jaw flexes in determination, her arms straight as she speeds the car forward down the street. I am yanked back against the leather seat.

« Maybe, could you please . . . » She veers the car to the side, gunning the engine again, right onto open road. « . . . slow down ? »

« For sure, » she says with a wicked grin, and she accelerates the pedal.

The road ahead of us is long and winding, an empty stretch of grayed concrete. On the side, I see the California beaches with the twisting murky water.

It’s beautiful enough to make me forget that we’re driving fast enough to challenge the speed of light.

« Back there on the street, did you see . . . » Did you see the people watching us ? Have I been watching too many movies lately ? Too much about organized crime ?

Veah looks at me. Her dark eyes are piercing―the colour of a brewing storm. I didn’t notice that, yesterday. The way her irises swirl like molten thunder.

For a moment, I forget to breathe.

I open my mouth to speak, but my eyes flicker to the road. Towards the truck that is hurtling straight toward us. The headlights are blinding in the early morning. The sound of tires screeching is loud, jarring.

Burning rubber and hot concrete―the scent sears the air.

I don’t have time to scream before we collide.

My eyes are closed.

I wait―for a crash, for death, for the introduction of the truck through the windshield of the Porsche I never should have gotten into.

I can smell it : hot, burning rubber and gasoline.

Goodbye, Cassie. One last prayer for my little sister. I’m so sorry I left you with Mom.

But after one second, two―the sound of the squealing tires is gone. I can hear the sound of my heavy breathing as the ringing fades.

And when I open my eyes, I see the truck burning.

« You swerved, » I say, still in shock. « You . . . steered us out of the way. »

Veah is looking at the sand in front of us, caked on the windshield. Her eyes are fixed on the truck. Watching it as it burns.

« Your reflexes, » I say, thinking out loud. « That’s not possible. »

How can her reflexes be so sharp ? How can her instinct be so honed ?

The fire from the truck morphs into something bigger, and I see a silhouette in the passenger seat.

My hand shakes as I try to unbuckle my seatbelt. I tug on the handcuff that connects us, urging her to move. To look.

« Veah, » I whisper. « The truck driver―we have to help him. »

Wordless, she shakes her head.

The truck explodes.

Fury and flame and debris rise up into the air―too far away to hurt us, but too close to be safe. Sparks swirl through the air, and through the shattered windows, I smell it : heat and sea salt.

« We have to―we have to do something, » I say, fumbling for the car door. « Oh, my God, we can’t just― »

Veah steps on the gas pedal. The car lurches through the sand, and I am thrown back against the leather seat again. I wince, and the feeling of stickiness―warm blood―pricks at me. A head injury. Shit.

« Um, » I say. Hysteria creeps up into my voice. « We can’t just leave― »

Without looking at me, she accelerates. The car begins to speed along the ribbon of grey road, faster and faster beneath the stormy sky.

I am in a car with a stranger.

I am in a car with a beautiful stranger.

I am in a car with a crazy, beautiful stranger.