What Doesn’t Kill Her

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I wish to acknowledge my frequent collaborator, Matthew V. Clemens, for coplotting, forensics (and other) research, and the preparation of a story treatment from which I could develop this novel.

— M. A. C.

Ten Years Ago

Breath coming in raspy gasps, sixteen-year-old Jordan Rivera peeked out from her hiding place under her bed.

Too loud, she knew, working to calm herself, control her breathing. Too loud.

This had been such a typical boring evening, dinner with her folks and her older brother, Jimmy, then to her room for homework. Now the dullness that was her life had taken a terrifying turn...

She’d been lying on her bed, wearing only a knee-length nightshirt, algebra book open in front of her as she daydreamed about Mark Pryor. About kissing him. About more than kissing him...

While it seemed every other cheerleader lusted after quarterback Pete Harris, Jordan had set her eyes on Mark, the team kicker. Mark was no broad-shouldered knuckle dragger — he was short and thin, like she was; but his hair was blond where hers was black, his eyes blue where hers were dark brown.

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