If I didn’t, he’d be telling this story at my eulogy.
We’re gathered here today to talk about my impulsive little sister, Thin Ice, a magnet for trouble who never once learned to look before she leapt…
The thought of Oscar delivering my eulogy gave me the kick in the ass that I needed. With pure willpower, I managed to scramble back up, getting a toehold on the bumper, just as the Wagoneer swung left, nearly sending me into a parked car. One hand flew loose, my fingernails skimming the side window of a silver sedan, before I managed to whip myself around and reestablish my grip.
And this made me angry again.
Why was this asshole trying to kill me? Why did he think he was so special that he got to walk around killing people?
Fresh righteous fury boiled over in me.
I tried to grasp the latch of the back tailgate, but I needed a key to open it. I banged on the back window, trying to peer through the darkened glass to see the driver. He was the cause of this. He was the problem. He’d always been the problem.
The Wagoneer hit the curb near the kayak rental shop, knocking over a planter of golden mums and sending small pumpkins rolling down the sidewalk. The driver knocked me straight into aFALLINTO… FALL!flag hanging from a vintage lamp. I pulled it off my face, and it whipped back away from me.
That almost felt like a stunt move, perfectly executed for a camera somewhere.
Just like one Mateo could do in his sleep.
I filed that fact away for later when I wasn’t holding on to a Wagoneer for dear life.
The morning sun glinted off the docile waves of the lake ahead of us. I tried to get a better grip on the car, but my hands kept slipping. I hung on with sheer will. I planted a toe on the back ridge of the tailgate and pushed myself up. Getting on the roof of the car had to be less precarious. I flattened myself on the top of the luggage rack, one hand on either railing, lying flat on my stomach and wonderingWhat the hell do I do now?Wind whipped my face, the cross bar on the luggage rack dug into my solar plexis, and the vantage point from on top of the roof was only slightly better than at the back of the SUV. I banged on the roof near the driver’s head.
“Stop this car!” I shouted, but the driver ignored me and instead stomped on the gas, blowing through a red light and straight toward the wooden dock. The front bumper hit thePEDESTRIANS ONLYboardwalk sign, sending it flying to the water. And then the tires hit the wooden planks with athunk, thunk, thunk. The boardwalk was long but barely wide enough for the SUV, and we were headed for the water. We were headedvery fastfor the water.
This might be it.
Oscar at my funeral.
And then, just when I was sure the Wagoneer was going to make a stunt-scene-worthy jump into the waves, the driver hit the brakes, screeching the Jeep to a halt. I desperately tried to clutch the toprailing, but there was no arguing with g-forces and gravity. One second I was plastered to the roof of the car, and the next I was flying, airborne for what seemed like a year of my life, before I crashed into the frigid waves.
And I was seven again, ice-cold water punching the breath from my lungs as I sank beneath the surface.
Sixteen
“I can’t believe I have to say this, but murder is wrong.” That’s the Chicago chief of police at one Canceled Killer press conferences. “To the public—please stop encouraging homicide on our streets. I’ll remind you we don’t actually know the motives of this killer. And even if we did, there’s no good justification for murder.”
—Crime Hivepodcast
That day I fell through the ice, it was the mitten I remember. I’d lost it in the snow while sledding on that warmer-than-usual December day on a hill by the lake. Robbie Blythe had grabbed my mitten and run away with it, taunting me as he did so. Mom thought Robbie had a crush on me, which was why he teased me relentlessly, because boys were taught that bad behavior should be forgiven and girls should just be gratified to have their attention, no matter what form it took.
I’d clomped after him, determined to retrieve my mitten and give the little jerk the shin-kicking of a lifetime. Behind me, I heard the squeals of delight from the other kids on the hill, including Olivia and Oscar. A few parents sipped coffee at the bottom of the slope or in the newly plowed parking lot.
I was far from the crowd, and Robbie was already out on the iced-over lake.
“Give it back,” I demanded.
“Come get it,” Robbie taunted. He hung out that pink mitten just to taunt me as he took another step away from shore.
“We’re not supposed to be out this far,” I told him. But he didn’t care. He just stuck his tongue out at me.
“You scared?” the jerk said, and then he stomped his foot against the snow covering the ice.
“Stop that,” I demanded. He didn’t. He kicked snow at me, digging out a small, wet circle near his feet, revealing the icy surface below. Then he stomped again.
The first hairline crack appeared under his left snow boot and traveled right to me.
“Robbie, don’t move,” I cautioned.
