Page 32

But I can’t imagine Dimitry here, amid the dust, heat, and isolation. No matter how hard I try.

Impossible. It was always an impossible relationship.

Something moves in my peripheral vision. I glance in the rearview mirror again, but the dying sun is blinding, and I can’t see anything.

Then a motorbike roars past me, so loud it makes me jump. It pulls in right in front of my car, close enough that I can clearly see the Banderos logo on the jacket.

“Fuck.” I sit up straight, tension flooding my body, and glance over my shoulder.

There’s another bike coming up on my side. And two more behind me.

Four?That’s one biker too many.

Especially at sunset, on a back road that goes nowhere except to our farm.

There’s no fucking way this is a coincidence.

I grip the steering wheel, wondering if I should call my parents. But reception is bad enough as it is out here, and I’m only a few kilometers from our front gate.

And what would my parents do, anyway? They might be accustomed to pointing a gun at an animal that needs putting down, but taking on criminals is a whole other thing.

One I never wanted to bring to their door.

There’s no time for regrets, though, because suddenly I’m surrounded on all sides.

And the bikies are all pointing guns at me.

Keep moving, Abby.

Dimitry’s voice sounds in my head, cool and calm, and I obey it without thought. I put my foot down, racing up on the bike blocking me in front.

Then I hear a gunshot, and the steering wheel rips out of my hands.

They’re shooting my tires.

As the car flies into the air and the world turns upside down, I see Dimitry’s face.

I love you, I think as the world spins in slow motion beyond the window.I loved you from the day you walked into that Malaga cafe.

And suddenly I know exactly what choice I want to make.

But then the world turns to black, and it’s too late for choices at all.

5

Dimitry

Malaga, Spain

Present Day

Iwake in Abby’s apartment with a pounding head, dry mouth, and sickening feeling that has nothing to do with the stupid amounts of alcohol I consumed last night.

I lie on the couch where I fell asleep, trying to muster up the courage to look at my phone. Despite my drunken state, I managed to dig out my old phone charger before I went to sleep.

Part of me wishes I’d never left a charger here. Then I could hide from whatever answer does—or doesn’t—come.

Without sitting up, I reach over and tap the phone resting on the coffee table. The date glares up at me like a death sentence. And the blank screen beneath it leaves me as hollow as death itself.