Kit Marquez represents one side of the coin. Heads. She's a heart attack with poisonous smiles and eyes like melted chocolate, captivating and deadly. She's also angry. Angry at the world, angry at the people in her life, angry with everyone except...
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Kit understands what is about to happen before her killer does.
In that instant, time seems to become an abstract concept. It all happens in what appears to be the blink of an eye — one moment, she exists. Her heart is thumping like a war drum against her ribcage, her breath comes out labored and perspiration beads on her forehead, sticking her matted hair to the back of her neck. And the next, she is simply . . . gone. Empty. Cocooned in darkness, unthinking and unfeeling.
But there is something in between these two stages, something that simultaneously feels like an eternity and a nanosecond. And in this limbo, Kit feels absolutely and ironically alive. She feels like she is at the bottom of the ocean, a million tons of water crushing her from above. She feels like she is buried in permafrost, scorched by a bonfire.
What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?
Kit thinks this might be what it feels like — it feels like everything and nothing and whatever lies in between. It feels like catastrophe. It feels like death.
Dark smudges like spilled ink blot the edges of her vision and she lets herself drown in it. She does not weep. She is gone.
