ALSO BY LISA GARDNER
NOVELS
The Perfect Husband
The Other Daughter
The Third Victim
The Next Accident
The Survivors Club
The Killing Hour
Alone
Gone
Hide
Say Goodbye
The Neighbor
Live to Tell
Love You More
Catch Me
Touch & Go
Fear Nothing
SHORT WORKS
The 7th Month
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Gardner, Lisa.
Crash & burn / Lisa Gardner.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-698-18617-0
1. Police—Massachusetts—Boston—Fiction. 2. Traffic accident victims—Fiction. 3. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Crash and burn.
PS3557.A7132C73 2015
813'.54—dc23
2014035338
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Also by LISA GARDNER
Title page
Copyright page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
I DIED ONCE.
I remember now, as much as I am capable of remembering anything, the sensation of pain, burning and sharp, followed by fatigue, crushing and deep. I’d wanted to lie down; I recall that clearly. I’d needed to be done with it. But I hadn’t. I’d fought the pain, the fatigue, the fucking white light. I’d clawed my way back to the land of the living.
Because of Vero. She needed me.
What have you done?
I am weightless now. I understand, absently, this is not a good thing. Cars shouldn’t be weightless. A luxury SUV was never intended to fly. And I smell something sharp and astringent. Alcohol. More specifically, whiskey. Glenlivet. Always prided myself on drinking the good stuff.
What have you done?
I want to cry out. As long as I’m sailing through the air, about to die for the second time, I should at least be able to scream. But no sound comes from my throat.
Instead, I stare through the plunging windshield, out into the pitch-black night, and I notice, of all things, that it’s raining.
Like that night. Before . . .
What have you done?
It is not so bad to fly. The feeling is pleasant, even exhilarating. The limits of gravity defied, the pressure of earthbound life left far behind. I should lift my arms, spread them wide and embrace the second death looming before me.
Vero.
Beautiful little Vero.
And then . . .
Gravity takes its revenge. My car is weightless no more as it reconnects savagely with the earth. A shuddering crash. An echoing boom. My body, once in flight, now tossed like a rag doll against steering wheel, dashboard, gear shift. The sound of glass cracking. My face shattering.
Pain, burning and sharp. Followed by fatigue, crushing and deep. I want to lie down. I need to be done with it.
Vero, I think.
And then: Oh my God, what have I done?
My face is wet. I lick my lips, tasting water, salt, blood. Slowly, I lift my head, only for my temple to explode in agony. I wince, tucking my chin reflexively against my chest, then rest my aching forehead against hard plastic. The steering wheel of my car, I realize, is now crushed against my chest, while my leg is twisted at a nearly impossible angle, my knee wedged somewhere under the crumpled dash. I have fallen, I think, and I can’t get up.
I hear a sound. Laughter. Or maybe it’s keening. It’s a strange sound. High-pitched, continuous and not entirely sane.
It’s coming from me.
More wet. The rain has found its way inside my vehicle. Or I have found a way outside. I’m not sure. Whiskey. The stench of alcohol is so strong it makes me want to vomit. Soaked into my shirt, I realize. Then, my gaze still struggling to take in my surroundings, I spy glass fragments scattered around me; the remains of a bottle.
I should move. Get out. Call someone. Do something.
My head hurts so damn much, and instead of velvet black sky, I see bursting white lights exploding across my field of vision.
Vero.
One word. It rises to the front of my mind. Grounding me. Guiding me. Urging me forward. Vero, Vero, Vero.
I move. Laboriously, the keening sound replaced by a soul-wrenching scream as I attempt to extricate myself from the driver’s seat. My vehicle appears to have landed on its front end, the dash nearly crushed against me. I’m not upright, but tilted forward, as if my Audi, once it broke its nose, couldn’t regain its balance. It means I have to work doubly hard to unpin myself from the accordionized space between my seat and the steering wheel and collapsed dash.
Airbag. The excess mass wraps around my arms, tangles up my hands, and I curse it. Back to screaming and fighting and ranting gibberish, but the senseless rage spikes my adrenaline until at least the crushing fatigue is gone, and now there is only pain, an endless, terrible pain I already understand I can’t afford to contemplate, as I finally wiggle my way sideways from between the driver’s seat and the dash. I collapse, panting heavily, onto the center console. Legs work. Arms, too.
Head’s on fire.
Vero.
Smoke. Do I smell smoke? I suffer an immediate bolt of panic. Smoke, screams, fire. Smoke, screams, fire.
Vero, Vero, Vero.
Run!
No. I catch myself. No smoke. That was the first time. How many times can a woman die? I’m not sure. It’s a blur in my head, from the smell of wet earth to the heat of flames. All separate and yet together. I am dying. I am dead. No, I am merely dying. No, wait, I am dead. The first time, the second time, the third?