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No.

I wasn’t doing this.

I wasn’t falling apart. Not again.

I crept backward on hands and knees, away from the shed, deeper into the shadows, where the trees started. My injured ankle rolled on a branch, but I bit down on the cry of pain.

I was almost there.

If I could just get to the neighbor’s fence line—just far enough to scream, to be seen⁠—

A twig snapped behind me, and I twisted toward the sound, my palms scraping the dirt.

Nothing.

Dragging my gaze back…I collided against a nightmare.

“There you are,” he murmured as he bent over me. Too fast, his arm snaked around my waist, and he hauled me off the ground. His other hand clamped around my wrist. My nerves shrieked as bone ground beneath his grip.

The knife slipped from my hand, and desperately, futilely, I reached out after it. “No, no, no, no… NO!”

“I said stop running,” he growled furiously. His breath flushed hot against my ear.

I thrashed, kicking and clawing…but he only cinched me tighter. My twisted ankle screamed as he dragged me toward the woods, rain sluicing over us both, his hold unyielding, my breath breaking out in staccato gasps.

The security light on the next property burst on, flooding the night with a bright, artificial glare.

“Hey!” a throaty female voice called. “What the hell are you doing?”

It was Mrs. Callahan. The widow next door, who sometimes marched over with a ruler to measure the grass at the edge of my lawn, just to make sure I was cutting it short enough.

Her porchlight snapped on next. God bless nosy neighbors.

His grip loosened for a breath, just long enough.

I seized the knife from the mud and turned, adrenaline roaring in my ears.

A strange calm swept through me, cold and absolute.

And then everything went black.

CHAPTER 1

SIENNA

Iwas trying to stop looking over my shoulder…but some habits were hard to break.

Somewhere between Nebraska and my next emotional crisis, I realized I’d been driving with my parking brake on for about forty-seven miles.

I fixed it, obviously. I’m not completely irresponsible. But still. My car smelled like hot pennies and poor life choices, which if I were being honest, had become my signature scent. At this point I probably had a higher tolerance for the smell of copper than any normal person should—and not just from the smoking parking brake.

I shook my head. That life was over. Now, I was nearly thirty, husbandless, and the proud owner of two suitcases, one dying Prius, and a glittery compact mirror that said You Look Fine (For Your Age) in bold serif font. Boston was behind me. California was the dream. And the road in front of me?

Endless. Dusty. A quiet that made you start talking to inanimate objects just to feel something.

“Not now,” I muttered to the gas pump at mile marker who-the-hell-knew. It was stuck on “please remove nozzle,” and I was two seconds from body slamming it into cooperation.

I didn’t need “destruction of property” added to my permanent record, so I gave up trying and headed for the tiny building across the lot.