the lanes of traffic.
At such a high rate of speed, the driver couldn’t possibly regain control of the vehicle. Just as it passed her, the Porsche rolled, flipping side over side until it came to rest upside down in the empty drainage ditch a few hundred yards ahead of her.
For an instant, she stood stunned, disoriented by the abrupt, jarring shift in her emotions, from weary despair to adrenaline-laced shock in a matter of seconds.
Smoke began to pour from the mangled carcass of the car and she could smell that scent peculiar to accidents: a combination of gasoline, scorched rubber and hot metal.
What were the chances of the drunk walking away from such a crash? It was hard to gauge. When she’d still been on the job, she had worked accidents she would have sworn no one could possibly survive where the victims came out completely unscathed. And she had worked simple, no-frills fender-benders that resulted in fatalities. Every situation was a crapshoot, like so much of police work.
She looked through the filter of leaves but couldn’t see any activity around the car. Her stomach churned suddenly, unexpectedly, as she fought the urge to check out the scene, to make at least some effort to help the idiot driver.
She didn’t want to get involved, couldn’t handle getting involved. She could hardly think past her own agonizing grief. But she had been a cop for almost a decade and it was hard to ignore those powerful instincts.
The battle with indecision lasted for only a few seconds. With a defeated sigh, Grace scrambled down the small slope toward the accident scene.
A few other motorists had already stopped and a small crowd had gathered around the periphery of the accident scene. They all looked stunned, with the kind of dazed disbelief civilians share during traumatic incidents.
Nobody seemed inclined to move closer, which was just as well. A shower of sparks rained down beneath the sports car’s hood and she was afraid it was only a matter of time before those sparks ignited the fuel line and the whole thing exploded.
Just as she reached the edge of the crowd, a man pulled himself out of the car, his face a bloody mass of cuts and his arm cradled against his side. He looked scruffy and ill-kempt, with dark, shaggy hair and a long, droopy mustache. Through a rip in his T-shirt, she could see a twisted tattoo, some kind of snake peeking through.
Not exactly what she would have expected from the driver of such an expensive car. Most likely it was hot.
Regardless, he would walk away, like so many drunk drivers, she thought with disgust. He weaved a bit and started to topple over, but righted himself just before she reached him. Grace grabbed his arm—the one with the tattoo—and helped him the rest of the way to safety.
“Anybody else in there?” Grace had to yell to be heard over the traffic still speeding past.
The man didn’t answer, just gave her a bleary-eyed stare, so she tried again. “I said, is anybody in there? Was there anybody else in the car with you?”
The question finally seemed to sink in. The man looked back at the car and she could swear there was perfect clarity in his red-rimmed eyes, then a strange, furtive look slunk across his battered features.
“No,” he said hoarsely. She could see a ruby earring glint through the shaggy dark locks when he shook his head. “Nobody else. Just me.”
A plump woman with teased blond hair and wearing surgical scrubs rushed over to them. “I’m a nurse,” she said, and quickly, efficiently, led the drunk farther from the wreckage.
Grace watched them for a moment then turned to give the vehicle one last look. The police would be here soon. She could already see the faint flicker of flashing lights off in the distance. Somebody in the crowd must have a cell phone to summon them so quickly.
She wondered if the patrol would be someone she knew, then discarded the thought. Not this far east. She doubted if she was even in King County anymore, although she didn’t quite know where she was, exactly. She’d been driving all evening trying to outrun her ghosts and it was only by chance that they had caught up with her here, on this isolated stretch of road. She knew she’d come some distance, though.
Wherever she was, she knew she didn’t want to be here when the police arrived. She turned and would have slipped back into the safety and solitude of the orchard when she thought she heard a tiny cry.
Marisa.
Her daughter’s voice called to her, haunted her. It seemed to float across the noise of vehicles whizzing by, past the crowd’s excited hum, above the scream of approaching sirens.
Was she the only one who could hear it? She must be—no one else in the crowd reacted at all.
Her head buzzed from the fumes and the noise and the emotional trauma of the last few hours. Maybe she was hearing things.
“Daddy! Help me!” she heard. Louder this time, but still faint. She frowned and shook her head in confusion. Why would Marisa be calling for a father she never knew, for a seventeen-year-old boy who had refused to take responsibility for the child he’d helped create in a brief, forbidden moment of passion.
It made no sense. Still, she had to find out.
“What are you, crazy, lady? That thing’s going to blow any second now.” A burly trucker tried to bar her way but she shoved past, barely aware of him, and slipped away from the crowd toward the wreckage, toward the beckoning call of her dead daughter.
She ignored the shouts of alarm behind her, focused only on following that tiny voice. Her daughter needed her and this time—dear God, this time—she would be there to help her.
The instant she reached the overturned car and knelt in the gravel of the shoulder to look through the window, reality hit her with a cold, mean slap.
It wasn’t Marisa calling her at all. It was a small blond-haired girl, several years younger than her daughter would have been, strapped into her seatbelt and suspended upside down in the passenger seat of the smashed sports car.
Smoke poured from the hood, obscuring her vision and burning her eyes and throat. Grace coughed and tried to wave it away so she could see into the vehicle.
“I want my daddy!” the girl cried, her voice wobbly with fear.
A cold fury swept through Grace. The driver had known the little girl was in there, Grace was sure of it. That moment of clarity had been unmistakable. Yet he had lied and said he was alone in the car, consigning his daughter to a fiery, gruesome death.
Not if she could help it.
“There’s a kid in here!” she shouted with a quick look over her shoulder. “I need help!”
The other motorists just stared at her, not one of them willing to risk death for a stranger. The flames licked the side of the car now, and the roar of the fire seemed louder. She was going to have to move fast. Conscious that with every passing second her chances of rescuing the girl—and of escaping the inevitable blast herself—diminished, Grace sank to her stomach and pulled herself in through the driver’s-side window. The rollover had smashed the other door and she could see no other way in or out.
She dragged herself along the overturned roof of the car, heedless of the scrapes and cuts she earned along the way. When Grace
