Page 29 of Shatter

A chain-link fence runs along the tree line, eight feet high at least, with a coil of wire along the top.

On a pole at the corner, a camera blinks its little red light.

A long, low building with bay doors, and a row of motorcycles parked in front of it, chrome catching the first light.

My silver Corolla, parked crooked in the gravel near the front, with the back door still hanging open.

I get my fingers under the lip of the window sash and push.

It rises four inches and sticks.

I push harder, and my ribs light up so bright I have to bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.

"It sticks about halfway." His voice is low and thick with sleep.

I spin around too fast, and pain whips through my side.

I catch myself against the sill with the breath frozen halfway down my throat.

He hasn't moved.

His eyes are open, watching me from the chair, but his arms are still crossed and his legs are still stretched out across the floor.

He isn't getting up.

"You have to lift it on the left side first." He nods at the window. "Then the right. The frame's warped."

I stare at him.

"You're not going to stop me?" My voice shakes.

"No." He doesn't uncross his arms. "It's your call."

The window hangs open four inches, and cool morning air slides in through the gap, smelling like pine and wet grass, with exhaust underneath.

My fingers are still hooked under the sash.

"The man last night had friends." He keeps his voice low. "You know he did, or you wouldn't have shut your eyes when I asked."

My throat closes.

"He had your keys." Hakon's voice stays even. "Your phone. Your address, probably, if he knew where you worked. Your car's how he tracked you, or part of it."

I flinch at the car.

He sees it.

"So I figure it's a fair question." He tips his head against the wall, watching me. "If you go out that window, where are you going?"

I open my mouth.

My apartment, with the chirping smoke detector and a man's friend maybe already sitting in the parking lot across the street.

The diner, with Dale opening at six and Colin's blood still on the asphalt.

Seattle, where every road ends at my father's front door.

The bus station, with fifty-two dollars in my apron pocket.