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  Holly snapped her eyes open.

  “Hey there, sleepy head.”

  Holly blinked and tried to sit up but couldn’t move.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay.” The woman’s voice was a soothing balm to the violent images crashing across her brain. She moaned and blinked her eyes open. The nurse’s pretty smile was out of place with the torment battering Holly’s mind and body.

  “Hello, I’m Alison. One of the nurses here. How’re you feeling?” Alison pressed a button and a bell sounded in the distance.

  The back of the bed eased upright and Holly’s body seemed to groan with the movement. A lanky man of Indian descent, with gray streaks peppering his coal black hair, walked through the door.

  “She’s waking up again, Doctor,” the nurse said as she held a straw to Holly’s lips.

  Holly sucked the cool liquid. Swallowing hurt.

  “Hello, Holly. I’m Dr. Mirami.”

  She wallowed in a numb fog as the doctor tested her with one gadget after another.

  Blinking at her surroundings, she spied a sign to the left of a door. It was blurry at first but as the words formed, she frowned. “Where am I?”

  The nurse squeezed her arm. “You’re in a hospital.”

  “Hospital. Which hospital?”

  “The University of Washington Medical Center.”

  The last thing Holly remembered was being on a mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Confused, she cleared her throat. “How did I get here?”

  The nurse held the straw to Holly’s lips again and she took another sip.

  “You were medevacked out after the accident.” The woman adjusted Holly’s pillows.

  “How long have I been here?”

  The nurse’s eyes lowered briefly before she met Holly’s gaze. “It’s been eight months since the accident, Holly.”

  Eight months. Her mind raced and she shook her head.

  How could I have lost eight months?

  “Is my mother here?”

  The nurse shot a glance at the doctor and he nodded. “We’ll get the Social Worker.”

  Bolts of fear shot through her chest. “I don’t need a Social Worker. I need my mother.” She clutched the nurse’s wrist. “Where is she?”

  The nurse placed her other hand over Holly’s and when she saw the sorrow in the woman’s eyes, a chunk of her already broken heart slipped away. “No! No. No… no… no.”

  “I’m sorry, Holly. Your mother died last month.”

  A wracking sob burst from her throat.

  “Hey sweetie, don’t cry.” The nurses hand touched her shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”

  But she wasn’t okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay.

  Chapter Three

  Reginald sensed the quiet from downstairs. It wasn’t just the loud music that’d vanished. It was all the other sounds that’d gone too. Either his mother had passed out on the sofa, or she’d taken her boyfriend to her room. He hoped it was the latter. Thomas was as much a sleaze as all the other dipshits his mother brought home. The last thing Regi needed was to see the pair smooching on the sofa.

  Regi could go to sleep and pretend none of it happened. Not the yelling and screaming. Not the smashing of glass. And not the loud music they’d pumped up in an attempt to drown out their fight. He’d heard it all before. Thomas could be great for his mother… he was in a decent job, appeared to have decent money. Trouble was, as her drug supplier, Thomas was also his mother’s worst enemy. Regi was pretty certain their relationship was meant to be secret, given that Thomas was his mother’s boss. They never went anywhere, as far as he knew anyway, and all their partying was done here, in his mother’s home. His home.

  Deciding to get it over with, Regi left the sanctuary of his bedroom and headed down the stairs. His mother looked to be dozing in the overstuffed sofa. Regi knew otherwise. She was most likely in a drug-induced stupor. The fix she’d taken hours ago would’ve worn off by now and her mind and body had settled into some kind of zombie state.

  A cigarette dangled in her bony fingers, dangerously close to tumbling onto the cheap shag pile rug his mother had bought to cover her previous cigarette incidents. It was a wonder the house was still standing. Regi plucked the cigarette from trouble and clamped it between his lips. He inhaled slowly, allowing the smoke to seep into his cells, and his lungs welcomed the toxic cloud. Smoking was his one and only love, and it didn’t disappoint.

  Inhaling again, he let the smoke out in a long lazy stream that wafted upward like a drunken ghost. While enjoying the noxious reprieve, his eyes fell on his mother.

  Considering the self-torture she crammed into her body, she was still striking. A classic beauty with flawless china skin, ruby lips that barely needed enhancing, and a strong jawline that she liked to clamp when forcing back anger. Her pale blue eyes were the only telltale signs that something was amiss; they’d lost their glimmer some time ago and the whites were closer to pale yellow.

  Regi hated these bouts of self-loathing that had his mother tumbling into depths of despair. She’d had them on and off for as long as he could remember, but in the last nine months she’d hit the drugs heavily. He had no idea what had instigated the latest bout of depression.

  Whatever it was, if she didn’t snap out of it, it was likely to kill her.

  She’d only just hit forty, and had marked that significant milestone with a week in bed. Sometimes Regi felt sorry for her. She’d been just eighteen years old when she’d had him. Now that he was twenty-two, he could nearly appreciate what she’d gone through. Nearly. But she hadn’t just survived; the two of them had thrived.

  They lived in a three-bedroom home in a decent area of Seattle, and she never seemed short of money. Regi had everything he needed and more. And she could afford her drug habit, which must cost a fortune. As far as Regi was concerned, despite the drugs, she did alright as a single mom.

  He never knew his father; his mother refused to discuss the “sperm donor.” Whenever Regi pushed the issue, his mother’s consistent reply was that his father was the best worst mistake she’d ever made.

  Regi stubbed the cigarette out and shoved the ashtray aside. He leaned over and shook his mother’s shoulder. “Come on, Mom, I’ll take you to your—”

  Thomas groaned and his eyes snapped open. He blinked at Regi several times before he cleared his throat and scratched his stubbled chin. “Hey, Regi. What’re you doing?” Thomas’s gravelly voice sounded like he’d eaten from the overflowing ashtray.

  “I’m taking Mom to her room.” Regi nodded at his mother.

  “Oh, it’s okay, let me.” Thomas rolled to his feet and staggered sideways before he caught himself. Then he shook his head like a dog shaking himself awake and smiled at Regi.

  The man’s grin bordered on creepy, and Regi was torn between letting him escort his mom to her room and punching the sleaze bucket in the nose.

  “Hey babe, come on. We fell asleep.” Thomas’s tender touch on her arm was the only thing stopping Regi from the roundhouse punch.

  His mother blinked awake. A lopsided grin formed on her face and her eyes rolled around before they seemed to focus. “Regi, hi. Are you hungry? I can make—”

  “I’m okay, Mom. Thomas’s taking you to your room.”

  As if confirming his plan, Thomas curled his arm around her waist and pulled her upright. With their arms around each other, they giggled like drunken teenagers as they bounced off the hallway walls and headed to her bedroom.

  They shut the door, yet Regi could still hear his mother’s laughter. As long as that was all he heard, he was happy. He reached for the crumpled packet of smokes on the coffee table and flipped the lid. Annoyed that it was empty, he pegged it across the room.

  It was only half past ten, too early for bed, so he grabbed the remote, clicked on the television, and plonked onto the sofa. Flicking from one station to the next, he pushed back on the cushion and something wedged in the sofa’s pillows caught his attention. He plucked it out.
Two seconds later, a grin crept across his lips.

  It was Thomas’s wallet. After glancing over his shoulder to ensure he was alone, he flipped open the leather billfold. A cursory glance at the driver’s license confirmed it was Thomas’s wallet. Given that his mother had at least three frequent male friends, it hadn’t been a certainty. The driver’s license stated Thomas was fifty-one, much younger than he looked. Regi plucked the cash out and counted it. Three hundred and sixty-six dollars.

  It was his lucky night.

  Figuring Thomas wouldn’t miss fifty, he shoved the note into his pocket and reluctantly put the rest back in the wallet before shoving it down the sofa again. The taste of nicotine was still fresh on his tongue, and with the cash burning a hole in his pocket, he decided to walk up to the shops and satisfy his craving.

  He stood, and that’s when he noticed the car keys on the coffee table. Turning off the television, he listened for sounds coming from his mom’s bedroom. They were loud and unmistakable; his mom and Mr. Sleaze were snoring their heads off.

  Regi’s luck just got a whole lot better.

  Without even a second thought, he plucked the keys off the glass and headed for the door. He’d have the car back before Thomas even knew it was gone. He tossed the keys up and down once, then strode out the front door. As usual, Thomas had parked the car in their driveway as if he owned the place.

  Regi approached the beast with the respect it deserved. He’d give anything to have a sweet ride like this. As far as he was concerned, the 1978 Pontiac Trans-Am Firebird was about as good as it got. He considered himself a bit of an expert on the subject, given he’d held a casual job at Sparkle Car Wash for a little over a year.

  The door was unlocked, and it pulled open without the signature creak that so often plagued cars of this vintage. Regi slipped into the driver’s seat. The inside was in pristine condition. Everything looked original: the racy-looking gauges, the steering wheel, even the gear stick. Regi was impressed that Thomas had chosen the four-speed manual over the lame automatic alternative.

  Maybe Thomas was worth getting to know after all.

  He keyed the ignition and turned it on. The car roared to life and then settled in like a purring lion. Regi adjusted the mirror, wound down his window, and put the car into reverse. He cruised down the street with one hand on the wheel and his elbow out the side. It was a smooth ride, and it had everything he wanted in a car. Not that he could afford one. On his wage, Regi could barely afford to buy his own cigarettes.

  The IGA was less than a mile away, and the Pontiac hadn’t even opened her throat yet. Deciding to cruise right on past, he headed for the King Street wharfs. He’d done a bit of street racing with his friends down there a year or so ago, and with a bit of luck the place would be empty.

  Twenty minutes later he turned onto Jackson Street and cruised down the warehouse-lined street like he owned the joint. Only three things could improve this moment: one was a cigarette, the second was a hot chick in denim shorts and a string bikini in the passenger seat, and the third was if someone he knew actually saw him.

  But none of them came to fruition. He did, however, get the opportunity to open the throttle and hit seventy miles per hour along the deserted wharf. The eight-inch wheels handled the pavement perfectly and angled the corners like a sleek panther chasing dinner. Regi was literally having the ride of his life. It was nearly midnight when he aimed the car toward that packet of cigarettes that’d motivated him initially.

  He pulled into the first IGA he came across and parked the car right next to the shop’s front door. Regi climbed out and paused to admire the Firebird emblem painted on the car’s hood before he strolled inside.

  In addition to the cigarettes, he bought a pie and a cola and sat outside, admiring the Firebird as he consumed them. The paint job was so well buffed he could see his reflection in the blue paint. He liked what he saw.

  His mind flicked to Thomas. It was hard to imagine him behind the wheel of this beast. Thomas was needle thin, sported a cheesy fake tan, and had a mustache that he should’ve shaved off two decades ago. In spite of all that, Thomas’s choice of car rocketed him up into the interesting ranks, and Regi wondered if he should get to know him after all.

  Once he finished his pie and cigarette, he tossed the trash into a trash can, then climbed back into the driver’s seat and settled the car into its signature purr. He adjusted the side mirror so he could see his own reflection, put the car into reverse, and pressed the gas pedal.

  A violent crunch of metal on metal shattered his reverie. He slammed on the brake and looked in the mirror. His heart set to explode at what he saw. Barely able to breathe, he pushed open his door and stepped from the Firebird.

  From that moment on, everything seemed to go in slow motion.

  Behind his car was the most expensive car he’d ever seen in real life. A Corvette Stingray. Price tag approximately three-quarters of a million bucks. It was as sleek as a panther; it sat low to the ground and sported fat wheels for stability. It wasn’t the type of car that could be found at a local dealer. This one was special.

  And that meant Regi was in deep shit.

  But when a man climbed out of the driver’s seat of the Stingray, and Regi saw the calm indifference on his face, he had a gut feeling the shit pile was about to get a whole lot bigger. The man wore an expensive navy suite, a crisp white shirt trimmed with gray, and leather shoes that were polished so highly they reflected the IGA’s lights.

  Regi expected him to yell, or launch at him with a clenched fist, but instead the man smirked. Or sneered. Whatever it was, it was the polar opposite of what Regi expected, given the situation. Regi’s feet were rooted to the asphalt as he stared at the damage to the Stingray. Its sleek lines were no match for his forty-year-old muscle car, and the side fender had crumpled like a paper bag. On a car like that, it was about fifty grand’s worth of damage. At least.

  With every step the man took toward him, Regi debated making a run for it.

  “Seems like we have a situation, Mr.—” The man held his hand forward and Regi stared at it like it contained a loaded grenade.

  He swallowed so hard he was certain the man could hear it. Regi offered his hand and the man squeezed it, letting the hold linger too long for Regi’s liking.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  He cleared his throat. “Reginald.”

  “Reginald what?”

  “Reginald Tate.”

  “Well, Mr. Tate, that’s a fancy car you’ve got there. Is it yours?”

  Regi gulped. That shit pile just stacked on another layer. “It belongs to my mother’s boyfriend.”

  “Hmmm. And he knows you have it?”

  Regi glanced to his left, assessing the distance to the shop corner, and tried to calculate if he could make a run for it.

  The man stepped sideways, blocking Regi’s intended escape route.

  “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Tate.” The man’s voice was calm. Too calm.

  “What?”

  “Run.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  The slap came from nowhere, fast and hard, right across Regi’s left cheek.

  “Shit.” Regi rubbed the sting from his flesh. “What the fuck was that for?”

  “For lying. I don’t tolerate liars.”

  “I wasn’t—” Regi saw the second swipe coming and ducked beneath the blow. But when he saw the fury in the man’s eyes, he instantly wished he’d taken the hit. “Look, Mr.…”

  “Carson.”

  “Mr. Carson, I’m really sorry about your car.”

  “I know you are. Just hand me your insurance details and—”

  “I, um—I don’t have insurance.” Regi’s gut churned like acid in a blender.

  “Give me your license.”

  Regi fished his wallet from his back pocket and withdrew his license. Carson snatched it from his fingers and studied it. “Looks like you live in a decent neighborhood. We’ll set up a payment p
lan.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Who said anything about money?” Carson folded his hand around Regi’s license and turned on his heel. “My men will be in touch, Mr. Tate.”

  Daggers of fear burrowed into Regi’s skin as Carson eased into the Stingray, and without even a glance in his direction he drove away. Regi wasn’t fooled. Despite his fancy clothes and even fancier car, Carson was a thug. He’d just as likely break his fingers as offer him a hundred-dollar martini.

  Regi had collided with the devil.

  Chapter Four

  Three years later

  Holly did a double take at the name written on the front of her mail. Amber Hope. It’d taken her a full month to decide on her new name. Even though she’d changed her name legally a year ago, she still couldn’t accept it as her own. Amber had been her great-grandmother’s name and Hope was her mother’s maiden name. Holly liked to think they’d both be proud of her decision to use their names to create her new identity.

  But that wasn’t all Holly had changed. When she’d woken up from that coma three years ago, she was a different woman from the one that had fallen from the helicopter.

  She’d lost Milton, the love of her life, and had been labeled his gold-digging murderer on social media.

  She’d lost her mother, thanks to an aggressive form of cancer that she hadn’t had when Holly had last seen her.

  She’d recovered from so many injuries that her doctors had hailed her survival as a medical miracle.

  She was now riddled with scars, including a hideous burn scar that dominated her right cheek.

  And if all of those changes weren’t enough, Holly was also $1.7 million richer.

  Two years of treatment, both physically and mentally, had fixed some of her problems. Not the unbearable heartache or the profound sense of loss—they were ingrained in her being now. A dark stain smothered her heart from the moment she woke till she drifted to sleep at night. Sometimes it even attacked her in dreams, and she’d taken to trying to remain awake as long as possible, fearing her nightmares more than the sheer exhaustion.