PROLOGUE

Move, my brain screams—my arms and
legs lag behind.

Blood pools behind her
head, oozing out over the tile floor. Her eyes roll back into a blank stare. If
I want to get out of here, this is my only chance. I don’t have much time
before someone misses her.

I grab the key card
out of her coat pocket and gingerly pull off her lab coat, being careful not to
stain it with the growing river of blood.

As I slip on her white
coat, my head darts around for something I can use as a weapon–but this isn’t a
surgical center. No scalpels. No razors. Nothing sharp.

Syringes.

Scads of them.

Yes, this can work.

I fumble through the
medicine cabinet, and it’s like a candy store for drug addicts.

Ketamine.

Midazolam.

Haldol.

Potassium chloride,
instantly deadly.

But only if I can hit a vein.

Nope. Too risky.

I rip a syringe open
with my teeth, push in the plunger, tear open the vial tabs, and stab the
needle into the first vial, then the second. I fill the syringe with a lethal
dose of ketamine and midazolam, hoping that it will work fast enough, if it
comes to that.

Two or three minutes or so for onset, injected
into a muscle.

I’ve never envisioned
myself as a murderer. But what choice do I have?

Footsteps outside the
door stop me in my tracks.

Someone’s hovering,
and I can only hope they don’t call out her name.

She moans.

She’s alive?

What if she cries out for help?

Sweat moistens my
palms as I wait. I wipe away the dampness, willing myself to calm down. I can’t
afford to have slippery fingers with what I’m attempting.

Now it’s quiet. Too
quiet. I didn’t hear footsteps or anyone leaving.

Are they just standing there?

Maybe they heard our scuffle?

If she makes a sound,
I’m as good as dead.

I rip open another
syringe, grab a vial of potassium chloride out of the cabinet, and fill it. On
reflex, I tap it to get out the air bubbles, and a nervous chuckle slips out.

What’s the point of
that?

I find a vein on the
top of her hand, which is creepily warm. She seems to have passed out again, or
else she’s dead. But I’m pretty sure she’s still alive, although I can always
tell myself she wasn’t. But I’m not positive.

Can I actually do this?

For a split second, I
hesitate.

Before this moment, it
was self-defense.

It’s her or me,
though, so I prepare to jab the needle into her vein.

Instead, I check again
for a pulse.

She’s dead … I’m pretty sure.

The door handle turns.

I rush behind the door
and ready my other syringe. My heart’s pounding so hard, I’m afraid someone
will hear it. My pulse thrums in my ears as I await what’s next.

Then the handle
catches, the lock saving me–or whoever’s on the other side.

I wait in stillness as
the sound of a woman’s heels click, click, clicking on the tile floor fades to
silence, willing my racing pulse to slow.

At least it’s not
Cameron.

Then I make my move.

 

PART ONE

One month earlier

ONE

Nora

The pain is
unbearable, deep in the pit of my stomach, the scars of a lifetime suddenly
ripped open. I haven’t slept for days. I don’t even know my own mind.

Dipping in and out of
consciousness, I’m kept barely functional by little microsleeps. My head aches
behind my eyes. I’d give anything to fall into the black abyss, where all my
problems dissolve into the quiet darkness.

Soft meditation music
plays in the background.

“It’s not your fault,”
a voice calls out to me. “Life is hard,” it continues, the ding … ding … ding of the bells hypnotic, comforting. “We can take
away your pain. Come to Switzerland. Find your inner peace.”

Tears pool in my eyes.

“It’s all going to be
okay,” I tell myself.

I click on the link.

It looks so peaceful
there.

For the first time in
months, I have hope.

Tears stream down my
face as I absorb it all.

Taking away my pain.

It sounds so tempting.

I want to believe.

I need to believe.

So, I do.

And that is my first
mistake.