Dead Ringer

14

For an eternity as I stared down those headlights, I felt death surround me once more. But this version of it was different—a comfort, not a curse. It didn't blanket me from within; it came for me from without.

And I waited.

The lights loomed closer, an otherworldly glow at the end of my tunnel. Briefly, I wondered who would miss me. Clarissa, purely for my help in her case. Mark, maybe, as a passing thought about that woman he'd once known. But no one's life would change dramatically when that car hit.

At the last second, something woke in me. Some piece of me that I hadn't known existed—a piece that didn't want to die. My muscles coiled, launching me over the hood of the Golf, and as I skidded across the metal, I wondered who I was. Who I'd become.

I didn't recognize the instinct that had me rolling when I hit the ground, covering my head as I waited for an impact.

The crunch of metal split the night. Something hit me hard between the shoulder blades, and all the air rushed from my lungs as I toppled forward. I curled myself around my camera, protecting the fragile lens as gravel dug into my elbows.

Tires screamed. I couldn't make sense of anything except the blood on my arms, and I laid still as I came to rest just off the shoulder, in the grass.

I listened, expecting the rev of an engine or a crunch to indicate my impending doom. But I only heard the receding rumble as the car pulled away.

The silence that followed muffled everything, just like the darkness that blanketed me in the absence of the bright headlights. I clung to the idea of life as I felt its flame dwindle, the desire to live seeping away once more.

I hadn't felt that in at least a decade.

But as I sat up, my hands stopped shaking. My breaths evened, and my heart settled back into a steady rhythm. I felt myself sink back into numbness with speed that would have alarmed me if I could have felt anything.

I scrambled to my feet, scattering gravel as I clutched my camera. I squinted at the road ahead, but I couldn't even see taillights anymore. Beside me, my blinkers still flashed, giving the scene an eerie orange glow.

"Everything okay here?"

With a gasp, I whirled around. My fingers tightened around the camera, and my index finger accidentally pressed the button. In the blast of bright white that illuminated the darkness, Ciar Cosgrave winced, only inches from the camera's flash as it went off.

"Shit." He threw his hand up, far too late. "Aren't you supposed to turn that off at night?"

I hoped he was blind. Either way, I thanked the darkness for hiding my flush. He probably thought I was a complete amateur, when in reality I'd been playing absentmindedly with the flash before I'd almost become roadkill.

"What the hell is going on out here?" Ciar asked. As my eyes adjusted to the dim streetlights, I saw his outline as it prowled around my car, inspecting the damage.

"Weren't you wearing a seat belt?"

"What?" I blinked as he rounded the hood, scanning the skid marks I'd left in the gravel. "I mean—no, not exactly...."

"You're bleeding."

I followed his gaze to my forearms. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Are you okay?"

I nodded.

"What happened?"

"Somebody tried to hit me."

He took in the damage to the Golf, frowning. "Well obviously, they succeeded."

"No. Kind of. They hit the car, not me." I tried to wipe my forearms on my jeans, leaving muddy streaks across my thighs.