I gasped and strained, my hands pulling at his to try to free myself from his grip, but he was too powerful. His blue eyes bored into mine, and a drop of blood from his broken nose dripped onto my cheek.
“I told you I’d have you,” he said with a smile. His words were warm and sickly loving. “I told you.” He squeezed harder.
Gray spots formed at the edge of my vision. I clutched at the ground, trying to hold on, and my hand felt something cold, metallic.
The knife. My fingers closed around the handle. Summoning all my remaining strength, I arced the knife up and thrust the blade into his back.
He let out a loud roar and flew off me.
Oxygen rushed into my lungs, and I rolled over onto my side, gulping greedily. Mr. Nell contorted his body and pulled the knife from his back. Only the tip was red. The wound wasn’t deep—my fading strength hadn’t allowed for it.
Pain tore through me as I lay there, staring up at my would-be killer. My leg throbbed, my neck was tender, and each inhale sent needles through my chest; Mr. Nell had broken my ribs when he knelt on me.
But I still had one good leg, my arms, and my rage.
When Steven charged me again, knife in hand, I was ready for him. A second before he reached me, I swung my right leg out and tripped him, then trapped my legs in his. It was agony, but I held on.
The move was something Darcy and I had done when we used to play Crocodile in our backyard when we were little. Our legs were the snapping jaws, and we’d bring down each other and our friends when they tried to jump over us.
And just like our friends had, Steven tumbled over me, his legs trapped in mine. He twisted, trying to stay upright, but went down, landing hard on his back, his right hand pummeling down on my stomach while his left flopped uselessly against the ground. I gasped at the impact, and he let out a low groan, the wind knocked out of him.
“I told you I’d get you,” he rasped once more, a small smile flitting across his bloody lips.
I blinked, confused. But as I struggled to sit up, a sharp pain tore through my abdomen. It was then that I realized that the knife was still in Steven’s hand—and that the blade was buried in my stomach. Only the hilt was visible, and all around it bloomed a dark, growing stain. I noticed with an odd detachment that it was the exact same hue as the red rose Steven had left on my bed.
He was right. He had gotten me. He’d gotten my dad, then Darcy, and now me. This time, as I lay there with the evergreen trees circling me, my life did pass before my eyes. I saw my mom’s laughing face as we sat at the dinner table. My dad’s proud grin when I got first place at the science fair. Darcy’s flashing green eyes as she snuck an extra scoop of ice cream. Christopher’s sweet smile before he kissed me.
Mr. Nell had won.
Or had he? I wrapped my hands around the knife’s handle, my entire body on fire. I’d taken enough biology to know that the only thing keeping me from bleeding out was the knife, and that removing it would be the last thing I did.
The second to last, I vowed.
I stared at Steven, his legs trapped in mine, his torso splayed out on the muddy forest floor. His eyes were closed behind his cracked, wire-rimmed glasses, and he was lying on his back, taking rattling breaths through his broken teeth. His tan corduroy jacket was stained with dirt and blood, the flaps open, exposing his ripped flannel shirt—and his heart.
Gritting my teeth, I pulled the knife from my stomach. I registered the pain dimly, but I was too close to the end to feel anything but my need for revenge.
Steven’s eyes flicked open. His pupils were huge and as black as his soul. Then the moon came out again, spilling bright light over us, and all I could see was my own reflection in the lenses of his glasses. My hands lifting the knife. My blood dripping from the metal blade. The grim set of my lips as I swung down hard, right over Steven’s heart.
When it was done, I lay back, spent, staring up at the black sky.
“Rory!” a voice yelled from somewhere. “Rory!”
Suddenly, I woke up in the backseat of our new SUV, a scream wedged in my throat. Darcy’s hand gripped the front of my sweatshirt.
“Shhh! Dad’s sleeping,” she hissed, releasing me and twisting back into her seat next to my father. “You were having a nightmare.”
“A nightmare?”
I shook my head, my heart pounding wildly. My shirt clung to my back in patches of sweat and my neck was wet under my braid. I ran my hands over the seat and over my body, touching anything real to prove that what I’d just experienced was nothing but a dream. My body was whole. My sister, very much alive, was staring at me, and on my lap was the envelope containing the story of Nick, Darcy, and Rory Thayer, which wasn’t all that different than our real story. Except for the fact that we came from Manhattan and that my father was a private tutor instead of a literature professor at Princeton.
I breathed in and out slowly, trying to calm myself down and get my bearings.
“Where are we now?” I pressed my forehead against the window, the cool glass bringing me fully back to reality. The car was surrounded by fog, and my father was snoring behind the wheel. A foghorn sounded and I realized the engine wasn’t even running. I squinted out the window and saw another car’s side mirror just inches away, not moving. We were on a ferry, just like the one we’d taken when we went to my cousin Talia’s wedding up in Massachusetts.
Darcy shrugged. “No clue. I just woke up because you were yelling.”
“Have we stopped since the crash?” I asked.