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PROLOGUE

AFTER THE CRASH

I’ve never killed anyone before.

I’m not a murderer. I’m a good person. I don’t lie. I don’t cheat. I don’t steal. I hardly ever even raise my voice. There are very few things I’ve done in my life that I’m ashamed of.

Yet here I am.

I expected a struggle from the person beneath me. But I didn’t expect this much of a struggle. I didn’t expect this much thrashing.

Or the muffled screams.

I could stop. It’s not too late. I have fifteen seconds left to decide if I want to be a murderer—thirty seconds, on the outside.

But I don’t stop. I can’t.

Then finally— finally —the struggle ends. Now I’ve got a limp, motionless body lying before me. I don’t need to be a doctor to recognize a dead body.

What have I done?

I bury my face in my palms, choking back a sob. I’m not a crier—never have been—but in this moment, it feels appropriate. If I don’t cry, who will? After a moment, I force myself to straighten up and compose myself. I did this for a good reason after all.

It was the only way.