Page 138 of Wicked Sins

That smell in the air?

Exhaust fumes.

My body tenses, but I can barely move more than an inch. Why is this so difficult? I grit my teeth, but even that gesture barely bunches my jaw.

Have to get out.

Have to breathe fresh air.

Or is it too late already? I feel like I’m underwater.

Carbon monoxide. It’s already filling my veins.

Candy!

No, I can’t think about her right now. I’m already on the cusp of succumbing to manic terror.

Calm.

I need to focus. Think this through.

Terrible thing to ask of a brain that’s slowly dying.

Can I move?

I concentrate all my effort on moving my hand away from my thigh. After a few seconds, it jerks to the side.

Yes. I can move.

My eyes are adjusting to the dark. I’m in an old Porch Boxer that my dad keeps meaning to sell but never gets around to.

Just like he never got around to putting up a pool cover. Not that that would have stopped Emma, but—

You have to focus Jo.

I don’t know how much CO2 is in my system, or how much more I can handle before I cash out.

Candy’s dead.

But what if she’s dead already? What, exactly, would be the fucking point?

I don’t know that. But I know I’m running out of time. We’re running out of time.

The window is closed on my side. He’s run a garden hose through the opposite door’s window, leaving just a crack where he wedged it in. There should be fresh air outside the car, but to get to it, I have to wind down the window or open the door.

Opening the door makes more sense. I could fall out of the seat and crawl away.

But…opening the door requires more energy than just lifting my arm and pressing down on the button that’ll open the window. If I get it wound down enough, I could stick my head out and breathe fresh air.

While I’m trying to figure out what to do, I try lifting my arm up enough so that I can slide it onto the ridge where the door handle and the window button sits.

Even that seems too big a task.

I’m sweating icy bullets. Nausea lays like dirty oil in my stomach. Slowly, the fierce prickling in my fingers and toes starts dying.

Looks like the rest of the players have all folded, Jo.

Just you and Dad.

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