Last to Die

so scared I’m shaking in my boots
. She started to laugh, but suddenly noticed that Barbara was wearing a bathrobe and Bob’s hair was standing up on one side of his head. They’d been in such a hurry to chase after her that they hadn’t even gotten dressed. They both looked older and wearier, a rumpled, middle-aged couple who’d been roused from bed and, because of her, would wake up exhausted tomorrow.
    Barbara gave a tired sigh. “I know we’re not your parents, Claire . I know you hate living with us, but we’re trying to do our best. So please, get in the car. It’s not safe for you out here.”
    Claire shot an exasperated glance at her friends, then climbed into the Saab’s backseat and swung the door shut. “Okay?” she said. “Satisfied?”
    Bob turned to look at her. “This isn’t about us. It’s about you. We swore to your parents that you’d always be looked after. If Isabel were alive, it would break her heart to see you now. Out of control, angry all the time. Claire, you were given a second chance, and that’s a gift. Please, don’t throw it away.” He sighed. “Now buckle up, okay?”
    If he’d been angry, if he’d yelled at her, she could have dealt with it. But the look he gave her was so mournful that she felt guilty. Guilty for being a jerk, for repaying their kindness with rebellion. It was not the Buckleys’ fault that her parents were dead. That her life was screwed up.
    As they drove away, she sat hugging herself in the backseat, remorseful but too proud to apologize. Tomorrow, I’ll be nicer to them, she thought. I’ll help Barbara set the table, maybe even wash Bob’s car. Because damn, this car sure does need it.
    “Bob,” said Barbara. “What’s that car doing over there?”
    An engine roared. Headlights hurtled toward them.
    Barbara screamed: “
Bob!
”
    The impact threw Claire against her seat belt as the night exploded with terrible sounds. Shattering glass. Crumpling steel.
    And someone crying, whimpering. Opening her eyes, she saw that the world had turned upside down, and she realized that the whimpers were her own. “Barbara?” she whispered.
    She heard a muted
pop
, then another. Smelled gasoline. She was suspended by the seat belt, and the strap cut so deeply into her ribs that she could scarcely breathe. She fumbled for the release. It clicked open and her head thumped down, sending pain shooting up her neck. Somehow she managed to twist around so she was lying flat, the shattered window in view. The smell of gasoline was stronger. She squirmed toward the window, thinking about flames, about searing heat and flesh cooking on her bones.
Get out, get out. While there’s still time to save Bob and Barbara!
She punched through the last pebbly fragments of glass, sent them clattering onto the pavement.
    Two feet moved into view and halted in front of her. She stared up at the man who blocked her escape. She could not see a face, only his silhouette. And his gun.
    Tires shrieked as another car roared toward them.
    Claire jerked back into the Saab like a tortoise withdrawing into the safety of her shell. Shrinking from the window, she covered her head with her arms and wondered if this time the bullet would hurt. If she would feel it explode in her skull. She was curled so tightly into a ball that all she heard was the sound of her own breathing, the whoosh of her own pulse.
    She almost missed the voice calling her name.
    “Claire Ward?” It was a woman.
    I must be dead. And that’s an angel, speaking to me
.
    “He’s gone. It’s safe to come out now,” the angel said. “But you must hurry.”
    Claire opened her eyes and peered through her fingers at the face staring sideways through the broken window. A slender arm reached toward her, and Claire cowered from it.
    “He’ll be back,” the woman said. “So hurry.”
    Claire grasped the offered hand, and the woman hauled her out. Broken glass tinkled like hard rain as Claire rolled onto the pavement. Too quickly she sat up, and the night wobbled around her. She caught one dizzying glimpse of the overturned Saab and had to drop her head again.
    “Can you stand?”
    Slowly, Claire looked up. The woman was dressed all in black. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, the blond strands bright enough to reflect a faint glimmer from the streetlamp. “Who are you?” Claire whispered.
    “My name doesn’t matter.”
    “Bob—Barbara—” Claire looked at the overturned Saab. “We have to get