Page 11 of Shatter

The air leaves me in a sound I've never heard myself make.

He kicks me again, in the same spot, and something inside my side goes bright and hot.

I curl around it.

I can't breathe.

My mouth opens and closes, dragging at air and getting none.

The asphalt is still warm from the day's heat, pressed against my cheek, and it smells like oil and my own blood.

Colin crouches beside me.

He touches his cheek, looks at the red on his fingertips, and sighs.

"That wasn't necessary." He says it like I've spilled wine on his carpet.

The knife comes out of his jacket pocket.

It's small, a folding blade no longer than my finger, and he flicks it open with his thumb.

"Let's make sure you're not stupid enough to carry it on you." He hooks the tip of the blade under the collar of my polo.

He pulls slowly.

The fabric splits with a soft ripping sound, down the front of my chest, all the way to the hem.

Night air hits my bare skin, and my arms jerk up to cover myself before I can stop them.

He knocks them aside with the back of his hand.

His fingers run along the band of my bra and under the straps, fast and impersonal, like a man checking a suitcase at the border.

Then my apron pockets, and the waistband of my jeans.

Heat scalds up my throat and into my face, worse than the kick, worse than the slap.

He finds my tips.

He finds nothing else.

"Hm." He sits back on his heels. "Where, then?"

He takes my wrist and pulls my arm out straight, gently, almost like a doctor.

"Desmond wants you breathing." He lays the flat of the blade against the inside of my forearm, cool and smooth. "He didn't say anything about pretty."

"Please." The word comes out wet and small, and I'm shaking so hard the gravel rattles under my hip.

"Where is it?" He presses the flat of the blade harder, not cutting yet.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The walk-in.

Third panel from the left.

If I tell him, he gets it, and then there's nothing left to keep me alive until Seattle.