‘It’ll be over soon,’ says Dr Goodnight. ‘But first, tell me. Did this girl get in your head? She has a habit of doing that. She even got into my son’s head.’
He locks eyes with Gina, but she doesn’t answer him yes or no. Froth boils from between her lips. A clicking sound coughs out of her melting lungs. I don’t look away. She needs me to stand witness. I showed up, and I’m not leaving early. I lock eyes with her, and I give her whatever I have. It isn’t much. It isn’t enough. She’s still going to die, but I’ll be with her when she does.
‘I can make it end,’ he says, holding up the third syringe. ‘Just say yes. Tell me if Magda convinced you to come out here and play the hero.’
I nod to tell her it’s OK. I want her to take the easy way.
She works her jaw like she’s trying to speak. Dr Goodnight leans in close, and Gina spits on him. Before I can stop it, a shocked laugh flies out of me.
She smiles at me.
Dr Goodnight’s head snaps around at the sound, and black hatred fills his eyes. He turns back to Gina, jabs her IV with the third syringe, and her body locks up. Then it convulses over and over for what seems like forever.
And then it’s done.
Dr Goodnight turns to face me. The look on his face is clear. I’m next.
He never needed any information from Gina. He just wanted me to know what was coming for me. There was never an interview, although he wanted me to think I had a chance. I look at Gina. Tough old broad. He tortured her to scare me. It worked. I’m scared and I’m crying now, but I won’t beg because I’m not crying for me. I’m crying for Gina. She was probably the
best friend I’ve ever had. I didn’t know that until just now, but it doesn’t matter because nothing I can say or do is going to change how this is going to end.
It’s going to hurt. And he’s going to take his time.
‘Ha.’ I force myself to laugh. He doesn’t like it when people laugh at him. ‘She spat in your eye. Good for Gina.’
He turns around, holding up a syringe. ‘This won’t be very funny to you in a moment.’
‘You’re not going to let Rob do it?’ I ask. I narrow my eyes at him, smiling. ‘Or maybe you know he can’t?’
‘I’m doing my son the biggest favour of his life by killing you,’ he tells me as he flicks the syringe with his middle fingernail. ‘His obsession with you makes him vulnerable.’
‘He’ll hate you if you kill me, you know. Or maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe I managed to kill him after all.’
Michael Claybolt can’t give me the satisfaction of thinking I’ve won that. ‘You didn’t kill my son,’ he snaps. I’m actually getting under his skin.
‘Then where is he?’ I taunt. ‘He’s been obsessed with me for five years, and now he’s suspiciously absent at my death.’
Dr Goodnight leans in with a gleam in his eyes that tells me he knows he’s about to get the last laugh.
‘He doesn’t know I’ve got you. He’s on his way to Ray’s camp to catch you,’ he says. ‘And when you don’t show, he’ll kill all of them.’
Then he plunges the first needle into my IV.
I’m surfing flame.
You have to be very careful when you do that. The fire hurts, and you want to jump away, but you can’t because there are dark holes in between the fire. If you fall into one of those, you don’t come out. So I stay in the fire.
I crest a wave of pain and see . . .
White mounds. Sheets. Beyond that is my hand. I’m lying on my side, so I’m no longer tied down. I’m telling myself to run, but my body isn’t listening to me. I hear the clank of metal things being gathered together, and then the dunking sound of them being dropped into water. I can’t close my eyes. Then I see Dr Goodnight’s figure, but he’s blurry. I can’t even move the muscles in my eyes well enough to focus them, but I can smell. I smell bleach.
He reaches for me. His hands are on me.
I hear him make a heaving sound, and the room wheels around my fixed field of vision, and then all I see is the fabric of the shirt covering his back.
Dangling over one of his shoulders, I sway with every step he takes.
We pass a sudsy, soaking sink full of stainless-steel needles. And more sharp things, still unused and filled with venom. My hand nearly brushes the long, thick needle that injected adrenaline into my heart. I can’t move my hand enough to grasp it.