Jenna doesn’t say anything. She reverses out of the garage and follows the directions the woman gives her. Soon they’re only a couple miles away, in an industrial area of Rockville, Maryland. She passes a glass-repair shop, a kitchen-remodeling center, and a plumbing supply company.
With the detonator still in hand, the twin motions to an open warehouse, and Jenna drives inside.
Jenna considers bargaining with her. Explaining she was only defending her family. But the woman’s eyes are dead. Her twin is dead. She’s been planning this for some time. This is revenge, but also something else: a clear message intended for the wet-work market.
“Get out.”
They both climb out. The woman walks to the warehouse’s double doors and pulls them shut.
There’s a rope draped over a support beam. At the end of the rope is a metal hook. The woman gestures for Jenna to clasp the hook to the chain of Jenna’s handcuffs.
Before Jenna does so, she contemplates charging the woman, swiping the detonator out of her hand, killing her. But she knows it will never work. Her mind jumps to an image of Simon making
pancakes. Lulu on the bus waving goodbye, Willow in her prom dress, asking her advice on the car ride home. She clasps the hook around the handcuff chain.
The woman comes over and yanks on a rope, which tightens, and Jenna starts to rise from the floor, the cuffs digging into her wrists. The woman is having trouble raising Jenna with only one hand.
She sets the detonator down and yanks the rope and Jenna’s feet now dangle eight feet from the ground. The woman ties off the rope and then walks toward the corner of the warehouse. This is Jenna’s chance. If she can get down, she can get the detonator, then take out this disgusting specimen of a human being.
She twists her wrists, but the cuffs have clicked tight from her weight. The rope is thick and there’s no way to cut it. And the beam is solid.
She watches as the woman removes a tarp from something in the corner. It’s a dolly with an industrial barrel on it. She gets behind the dolly and slowly—seeming to use great care—rolls the barrel over until its open mouth is under Jenna’s feet. If Jenna could get lower, she could wrap her legs around the woman and snap her neck. But she’s too high.
The woman moves away from the barrel and back to the rope.
“Do you know there are six types of screams?”
Jenna doesn’t respond.
“For my sister’s sake, I wanted to hear you make every single one of them. This was the best I could come up with.”
That’s when Jenna understands. Inside the barrel is liquid.
Acid.
She’s going to lower her into it—slowly.
A wave of panic smashes into her. She starts to buck and kick, flails for what seems like an eternity. She finally stops in exhaustion and looks at the woman, who has a smile on her face. She’s getting off on the terror.
It’s then that Jenna decides she won’t give her the pleasure. She gives up the fight and closes her eyes. As she feels the rope lowering, she says a prayer for Simon, for Willow, for Lulu. For her parents. She’s had a better life than she deserved, given all she’s done.
She will not cry and she sure as hell won’t scream.
The rope lowers slowly.
It jerks to a stop. The woman is toying with her. Jenna keeps her eyes closed. She won’t give her the satisfaction.
But then she hears something. Movement, a familiar voice. A French accent tinged with Russian.
Her eyes pop open and she sees Sabine. She’s accompanied by a man, who swiftly puts a black bag over the twin’s head. The man turns and Jenna sees Michael give her what can only be described as a casual wave. He picks up the detonator and carefully places it in a metal box.
Sabine looks up at her. Jenna isn’t sure if this is real or if it’s a hallucination, her mind protecting her from comprehending that she’s being melted in a vat of acid.
“Just like when you were a teenager, ignoring my calls,” Sabine says.
Jenna remembers the text when she was at Saks. The Corporation was trying to warn her.
One of Michael’s men—Jenna recognizes him from the night she breached her ex’s estate—
wheels away the barrel from under her and lowers Jenna to the floor. Releases the cuffs.
Sabine says, “You’re lucky Michael didn’t take kindly to these amateurs pretending they worked for us or he might not have been keeping an eye out when she went back in business.”
Jenna doesn’t say anything; she’s still processing.
“I thought I owed you this much, mon chéri. Now let’s get you home to your family.”
Jenna feels something release in her chest—gratitude? forgiveness?—but says nothing.
She needs to make it home in time for sushi with a sexy taxman, a blossoming teen, a charming five-year-old, and a dog named Peanut Butter. To appreciate this life. For herself. For her parents.
For Annie. And the others.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To get this novel into your hands required the work of many talented publishing industry professionals as well as the support of family and friends.
Thanks first to my literary agent, Lisa Erbach Vance, to whom I owe this wonderful career.
Through her skill and tenacity, my novels have been published around the world and adapted for the screen. Other writers would be so lucky to have such an amazing representative.
Of course, thanks also to my publisher, St. Martin’s Press, Minotaur. I have the privilege of working with one of the finest editors in the business, Catherine Richards, whose expert pen and vision elevate my work. And let’s not forget associate editor Nettie Finn and copy editor Barbara Wild. All of my novels have also benefited from St. Martin’s extraordinary marketing and PR team: Martin Quinn, Stephen Erickson, and Kayla Janas. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Two other publishing professionals deserve special mention: Joe Brosnan, who started me on this journey, and Ed Stacker, my private editor/secret weapon.
Many people helped me try to understand and capture the worlds of Donnie, Nico, and Jenna. For Donnie, I’m indebted to the rock band Kix, a staple from my youth, when I blasted “Cold Shower”
and “Girl Money” from the cheap speakers of my rusted MG Midget. Kix inspired many iconic bands of the 1980s and 1990s, never receiving the full recognition they deserve. Members of the band graciously took time to talk to me about their early years and recent resurgence. Also, thanks to Keith Marlowe, my old law school buddy—and guitarist of the terrific band The Miners—who educated me on Philadelphia as well as the city’s club scene in the 1990s. I also drew inspiration from Dave Grohl’s excellent memoir. Donnie is, well, Donnie, and not based on any real person, but these gifted musicians helped me get my head into one of my favorite characters I’ve written to date.
As for Nico, Christo Doyle gave me a glimpse into the world of a TV producer. Like Nico, Christo has had major TV hits and even an aftershow for Gold Rush, but the comparison ends there. I must also express gratitude to J. Davitt McAteer and Celeste Monforton for providing information on coal-mining disasters. And many thanks to Joshua Caldwell and West Virginia University’s Academy for Mine Training, who showed me the academy’s state-of-the-art mine rescue center and provided insights into the life of coal miners, brave and hardworking individuals who risk their lives every time they go to work. All errors, and the many embellishments, are my own.