Independence (40 page)

My lips twitched and I raised a hand and waved back through the side mirror. Deep down, I stifled the mindboggling pulse of familiarity that warmed in my chest. I didn’t know him, yet the pull was unmistakable, As was the distinct sense of déjà vu at seeing that exact bike a few days ago at a gas stop in Nova Scotia and then again periodically for as long as I could recall, but always from a distance and always gone when I tried to get a closer look.

I must have been waving for too long, because my mother’s voice broke through my train of thought. “Fallon? What are you doing?”

I quickly stuffed my hand back between my thighs. “Nothing.”

But Mom wasn’t fooled. She took one glance into the rearview mirror and lost all coloring in her face. She cursed under her breath and floored the gas pedal.

Somewhere on highway 1 heading west, four sets of jagged burn marks mar the asphalt where the Impala had all but ripped through the concrete. Black smoke billowed, choking the clear sky with the stench of burned rubber. The motorcycle screeched, swerving under the attack. But where most would have shaken a fist and thrown a few curse words, the rider righted himself, leaned over his handlebars and sped up.

We were doing a hundred kilometers, and climbing. The needle quivered as we accelerated to speeds the Rust-Bucket was not accustomed to; the Impala groaned and shuddered, but kept pace.

“What’s going on?” I shrieked, partly out of soul chilling terror, partly to be heard over the clashing roar of two engines battling, one ours, the other the speeder behind us.

“Get down!” Mom shot back, hunched over the wheel, eyes narrowed on the road.

I wasn’t given time to follow orders. I was thrown back into my seat as the acceleration jumped nearly off the radar. I didn’t even think the Rust-Bucket could go that fast.

“Hold on!”

Jagged gashes scarred the leather dash where I clawed for bearing as I was smashed against the door. My skull ricocheted off the glass with a sickening thud, sending a burst of light exploding before my eyes. My spleen slammed into my ribs when Mom suddenly hammered down on the brakes. My heart had already taken shelter in my throat, thrashing like a captured bird struggling for escape. I would have been panicked, but I was already having trouble reminding my lungs to breathe and my brain not to explode.

The Rust-Bucket nearly flipped. For a split second, that’s
exactly
what I was expecting, and in that second, my heart forgot to beat. I watched, paralyzed from the brain down, as the car skidded as though on ice, rolling dangerously close to the ditch on the side of the road. The world seemed to clash, swirling in smears of greens and blues. I might have screamed, but even that seemed unlikely when I’d forgotten how.

Behind us, the motorcycle screeched, sounding like a desperate cry before it swerved under the rider’s erratic attempts at trying to miss the back end of the Impala. I was twisted in my seat before it even registered that I was no longer frozen. The leather headrest tore under my nails as I scrambled into the backseat, over duffle bags, blankets and fast food wrappers to watch with crippling horror as the bike squealed once more before disappearing over the edge, into the ditch.

My soul screamed before the sound tore through the soft tissues of my esophagus and exploded from my lips. Time screeched to a halt. Everything froze, except the loud cracking of my heart, and the bike doing a nosedive over the lip and crashing.

“No!”

“Fallon!” Only when my mother’s blunt nails peeled the skin on my arm did I realize she’d stopped me from throwing myself out the door.

I kept screaming. My insanity raged against reality. The world spun and dipped, andflashed crimson. Everything roared, swallowing the animal-like howls tearing through my lungs. I felt deranged, completely unhinged, like someone losing something so utterly precious to them that the very idea of living was unbearable. It was inconceivable. I wanted to die. I wanted to throw myself out of the car and dive into the ditch and… and what?
What was wrong with me?

“Fallon? Fallon, calm down.” Although soothing, my mom’s tone did nothing to calm the hysteria eating me up inside.

“Don’t leave him!” I pleaded, only just then realizing I was sobbing like my heart would cease beating if I stopped. “Don’t leave him! Please!”

“We have to go,” she said, still holding on to me as she used her free hand to maneuver the Impala back onto the road.

“No!” I shrieked, renewing my thrashing, throwing myself against the door. “Don’t leave him!”

But she didn’t stop and I was taken away; away from the other half of me.

End of preview

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