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I can’t stop running my hands over the seat, the dash, the inside of the door, winding the window up and down despite the outside temperature.

It is, hands down, the absolute greatest gift ever.

In this moment, I could easily fall for the rich, gorgeous, athletic boy who is a tapestry weaved from the darkest threads.

During the ride to school, I investigate the dashboard, familiarising myself with the glowing array of lights, occasionally bumping against Kincaid’s arm when I lean over too far. The icons are so different from my old vehicle, I open the glovebox, hunting for a manual.

When I pull it out, a plastic bag falls into my lap. The interior is streaked with brown with a lump in the middle. I pick it up, turning it over with a frown, trying to identify the contents. There’s a trio of creased lines and a…

I yelp and throw the bag into the footwell, recognising a nail. The creases are a knuckle.

It’s a severed thumb.

“Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I croak, quickly moving past my shock. I bend to retrieve the digit, fascinated enough to look closer. The flesh is discoloured with blotches of blue, brown, and purple. The nail has deep striations that remind me of Kincaid’s warning about a possible vitamin deficiency.

The more obvious deficiency in this case being the lack of a body.

“You can just toss that into the gutter,” Kincaid says, eyes lingering on me, a slight furrow to his brow.

“Isn’t it to unlock something?”

“Already done.” He gives me another quick glance, this time faintly amused. “Biometrics only work for the first hour or two, then the electrical charge under the skin dies and you may as well be using a plastic cast. It won’t work.”

“You can’t zap it back to life with a battery?”

“Only if you’re Doctor Frankenstein.”

His hand moves from the stick shift to my knee, fingers sliding underneath my kilt to cup my bare inner thigh, skin tingling like it’s trying to prove his theory.

I turn the thumb over, seeing the dull tinge of blue where there should be pink, the dirt lodged under the nails, never getting the chance to be washed clean. I wonder if its owner is still alive or if they also need a lightning jolt to reanimate.

But those aren’t the questions to ask on this crisp wintry morning when I’m sitting in my beautiful new car.

So, I follow his instruction, roll down the window, and toss it.

As I do, an insane idea pops into my head. One that scares me worse than anything that’s happened.

Ask him for help. He can easily sort out your problem.

And hand him leverage he could use to control me? Not just in high school but for the rest of my life?

No, thanks, Captain Crazy.

I push it from my thoughts, already suspecting the impulse won’t stay banished for long.

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

KINCAID

When the halftime whistle blows,I’m bent double, still winded from an illegal tackle. This Wednesday, we’re playing against a public high school team at the bottom of the tables and, so far, it seems they’re desperate enough to try anything.

As my breath comes easier, I stretch out my back and cross to the team benches.

“You all right?” Jared asks, sporting a shiner on his left eye that’s reduced him to monocular vision. He takes a sip from a bottle that looks suspiciously unlike water, grimacing as he swallows, chasing it with another.

“Yeah. You?”