1
JESSA
“You’re shaking.”
No shit I’m shaking, I want to say. The video is still playing on a loop in my head. Anton’s hands around his own wife’s throat…
And then the disappearing picture that followed. The one that showed the blood. Endless blood matting Marina’s silky blond hair. So much fucking blood.
I glance at Chris. He’s still watching me. I’m not even sure he’s been looking at the road for more than five seconds in a row since he picked me up.
“I’m fine,” I sigh.
“You keep saying that.” His tone is drawn tight with worry. “So why don’t I believe you?”
“Chris…”
“What happened?” he interrupts, undercutting the sensitive, patient vibe he had going when I first got into his beat-up Ford.
It’s been his car for as long as I can remember. I was with him when he made his first payment. That was almost eight years ago now.
My eyes burn and my throat feels tight. Is it the pregnancy that’s making me nostalgic? Or is it the knowledge that I’m about to leave all this behind? My life, my friendships, all the memories that are contained in old Fords and first apartments?
“J, you’re really scaring me,” he says, pumping the brakes when all I want is for him to slam on the gas and get me out of here. “Did he do something?”
“No!” The answer comes out harshly. I give Chris an apologetic look. “He didn’t do anything to me.”
“Then what—”
“I just… I realized I was in over my head.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Someone honks loudly behind us, and I put my head in my hands, hoping to stave off the headache I know is imminent.
“We need to find a cheap motel somewhere remote,” I tell him.
“A cheap motel? You have an apartment.”
“I can’t go back there. It’s the first place he’ll look.”
“My place then?”
“That’s the second place. Besides, I’ve already involved you in this mess just by calling you.”
“So the ship has already sailed on involving me,” he points out. “We might as well go the whole nine yards and avoid getting hepatitis from some shithole La Quinta in New Jersey.”
He puts his blinker on and makes a left, heading in the direction of his apartment.
“Chris, please,” I say urgently. “A motel, any motel. There’s that sketchy-looking place right off the bridge in Queens. Next to that purple high-rise?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Please. We’ll talk more when we get there,” I plead. “I just need some quiet now.”
He mutters something under his breath, but I’ve already stopped concentrating on Chris. My head feels like it’s about to explode.
Then the shrill ring of my phone slices through the moment of silence.