Page 143 of Stalkers Anonymous

For a half second, I think it’s working. He’s outnumbered. He’s seen the cameras. He’s going to sit the fuck down and we are going to have the conversation we came here to have. This man will hear me and, if he struggles with that, I have no doubt Cole’s fists will relay the message.

Then his eyes lock back on me, and he charges.

He doesn’t go for Cole. He doesn’t retreat. He goes for me, because I am the closest, because I am the smallest, because I am the one who challenged him out loud and he is going to make me eat my words before anyone can stop him.

He hits me at full speed, the impact knocking the wind out of my lungs. My back slams against the concrete railing of the footbridge. He has both hands on the front of my jacket. His face is inches from mine and he is snarling, shoving me backward over the railing while I kick at his shins and claw at his face.

“Hailey!”

Cole’s voice is too far. Then closer. It’s happening too fast.

“GET OFF HER—” He’s closing the distance. Halfway here, maybe.

Lars’s weight is crushing me into the railing. My ribs are on fire, but my hands find his face. I drive both thumbs at his eyes, and blood instantly sprays us both. He yowls and rears back, and his grip on my jacket loosens.

I shove.

I shove with everything I have left.

It’s not much. Three broken ribs. A concussion still making me weak.

But it’s enough. My hands land square in the center of his chest at the exact moment he steps back.

He hits the railing at the small of his back, and his feet leave the bridge.

For a fraction of a second he’s suspended, arms wheeling, eyes wide, mouth open in a perfect circle of surprise.

Then he goes over.

I hear him hit before I see it.

A single dull crack, the way a dropped melon sounds, and underneath it a wet, splintering thud, and then nothing.

Nothing.

I push off the railing. My legs nearly buckle. I lean over the edge just as Cole makes it to my side.

Lars is at the bottom of the dry creek bed, fifteen feet down, sprawled face-up across a flat slab of granite. His head is not the right shape. And there’s a petrified branch sticking up through the front of his jacket.

Through the front of his chest.

There’s blood everywhere. It’s pooling under him in a way I’ve only ever seen during the worst nights in the ER. Nights when there’s nothing and no one to save.

“Oh no.” My voice comes out with a desperate crack. “Oh no, oh no, oh no—”

I’m moving before I finish the sentence.

I swing one leg over the railing, but before I can get the other over, Cole drags me back.

“It’s too high!” he says, but I’m already racing for the end of the footbridge, the ache in my ribs a distant memory as adrenaline floods my system. I skid down the embankment and pick my way as fast as I can through the debris in the creek bed. I am vaguely aware of voices shouting around me, but all I can see is the body in front of me. The position of the head. The absence of any chest movement at all.

I drop to my knees in the gravel beside him.

“Fuck!” I scream, rolling up my sleeves.

Behind me or above me, I don’t know, the entire group is moving. I hear Cole hit the slope at a run. Jessica is calling his name. Gravel crunches under boots.

I don’t have time. He doesn’t have time. I press two fingers to the side of his neck.