Trying to ignore the cold, I shove my hands in my jeans pockets and weave through the crowd huddled underneath the covered sidewalk. The plastic bags from the pharmacy and grocery store crackle as they swing from my wrist. Between the darkness of the winter night and the faces buried under hats and coats, the people I pass become nothing more than expressionless ghosts.

The sun set a half hour ago and I’ve got a little less than fifteen minutes till curfew. The Dictator is strict about the comings and goings of anyone living in his household.

We’re having squirrel tonight for dinner.

Squirrel.

As in the rodent with the fuzzy tail that gets zapped on power lines.

Squirrel.

And it’s my turn to say grace. On top of not securing a comeback, I’ve also failed to find a way to thank God for the bounty that is squirrel. I’m sure, “Dear God, thank you for the fuzzy rat you gave us to eat and please don’t let me die of the plague after I digest it. Is that gristle? Amen,” will meet my uncle’s approval.

With ten people in one two-bedroom house, there are bound to be some personality clashes or, in my and my uncle’s case, a revisit of the Cold War. Actually, Russia and the U.S. liked each other a tiny bit more. He has a problem with girls who think, and I’m a fan of using my brain.

The moment I round the corner of the strip mall, two hulking silhouettes emerge from behind the back of the building. More male muscle reeking of ominous threat than friendly passerby. Instincts flare. Senses go on alert. I wouldn’t be the first girl jumped in this neighborhood.

I freeze and glance over my shoulder. Behind me, the ghosts fade into the stores, leaving me alone and with limited options. Going forward forces me to pass the two shadows, but it’s also the lone path into the neighborhood. Heading back toward the shops will make me late, and I promised Mom I’d never break curfew. My breath billows out in a cloud, a reminder that sleeping outside can mean frostbite.

Six months ago, I would have met the shadowy threat with no fear. In fact, I probably would have taunted them, but being hit until you break causes courage to disappear.

“I don’t have any money,” I call out. It’s not a lie.

A voice carries from the dark blobs. “Just give us the pills.”

My head shakes back and forth. Mom saved for two months to buy this medication. We lost our insurance. We’ve lost everything and Dad’s suffering. We’ve all been suffering. And Dad needs to get better. He needs to find a job. We have to get out of this awful place.

The shadows descend and I stumble backward off the curb. My heart pounds as I free my hands from my pockets and the bags slide farther up my wrist. It’s not my hands that I’m lethal with. It’s my legs. My feet. I’ve been trained to kick. The instinct to run battles my instinct to fight.

A horn blares. My head jerks to the right. Lights blind me. My hand flies to my face to act as a shield as my stomach shoots up. A scream tears out of my throat.

Chapter 4

West

“Jesus Christ!” I slam on the breaks and practically push the pedal through the floor as I will my SUV to stop. My tires squeal and my body whiplashes as the car jerks to a halt. The headlights spotlight a girl. Her arms protect her face and I try to process that she’s still standing.

Standing. As in not on the ground.

Not dead.

One thing went right today.

The relief flooding through my body is quickly chased by a strong helping of anger. She jumped out in front of me, not taking one look. Jumped.

She lowers her arms and I’m met by the sight of wide dark eyes. Her wild mane of light brown hair whips across her face as the wind picks up. She blinks and so do I.

She glances over her shoulder and I follow her line of sight into the shadows. Panic sweeps over her face and she stumbles, acting disoriented. Shit on it all damn day, what if I did hit her?

I throw the SUV in Park and, as I open the door, she points at me. “Watch it!”

Watch it? She’s the one who stepped out in front of me, then froze like a damn deer. I launch myself out of the car. “Sidewalks, chick. That’s where you stop. Not in the middle of a street!”

With a shake of her head, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and actually steps into me. If it were anyone else, such a movement would send rage from the tip of my toes to my fists, but instead I smirk and cross my arms over my chest. She may be tall, but compared to me she’s a tiny thing, and for the first time today, I find amusement. I’ve seen that type of fire burning in people’s eyes a million times in my life. Just never from a girl, and never in eyes so hauntingly gorgeous.

“You were the one not paying attention!” the girl shouts. “And besides, this is a parking lot, you moron. Not a dragway. You were going, what? Fifty?”

The word moron slips underneath my skin and my muscles tighten. But she has me. I was speeding. “Are you hurt?” I ask.

“What?”

“Did my car hit you?”

The fire within her wavers and she peers into the dark again. “No.”

Two huddled forms skulk near the back of the building. I refocus on the walking, talking inferno in front of me and, despite my Calc teacher’s opinion on my intelligence, I’m able to do the math. “Is that trouble for you?”

Her eyes shoot to mine and in them is a blaring yes, but because girls make no sense she answers, “No.”

A crackling sound draws my attention. The edges of a small white paper bag poke from a plastic bag. It’s a prescription. I give her the once–over, then turn to the guys hiding by the building. Dammit. Even the book geeks at my school who’ve never seen the outside of their PlayStation basement shrines are aware of the urban legends surrounding this neighborhood. She can deny it all she wants, but she has problems. “Get in my car.”

The fire returns. “Hell no.” She inspects the bruises forming along my jawline, then surveys my scraped and swollen knuckles.

“Look, it’s me or them.” I motion toward the thugs with my chin. “And I’m telling you, I’m not the bad guy in this scenario.”

She laughs. And if it wasn’t such a beautiful sound, I’d be insulted.

“Because a guy driving an Escalade in this neighborhood is the equivalent of a Boy Scout.”

The right side of my mouth tips up. Did she call me a drug dealer?

“From the looks of you—” she glances at my knuckles again “—well, let’s just say you must have your own baggage and I’m not a baggage-claim type of girl.”