Page 1 of Breaking His Law

PROLOGUE

ARIANNA—AGE FIFTEEN

A faint hiss of what sounds like high-pressure steam escaping from a tea kettle rouses me from the deep slumber I can’t remember drifting into.

My body jerks in response when I let out a staggered raspy cough as the pungent vapor of gasoline consumes my nostrils, filling my lungs and mouth, hitting the back of my throat.

Sharpness spears my shoulder from behind, making me shriek, and I suck in a breath when pain radiates through my shoulder as if a wave of needles is stabbing my skin. I’m unable to stifle my cough, and a high-pitched yelp followed by a long-drawn-out groan leaves my chest.

“Where am I?” I mumble.

Forcing my eyes open, I blink repeatedly, desperately trying to make sense of my surroundings and not gag on the fumes in fear of more pain that may come with even the slightest movement.

The haze lifts, and my vision becomes a little clearer, but it doesn’t stop the panic bubbling in my throat because I don’t know where I am or why I seem to be lying down on the floor.Or is it a road or a carpet? I glance around the space and silently plead for a clue as to where I am.

The tell-tale signs of being inside a car begin to piece together. Tiny, smashed pieces of glass everywhere, jagged contorted metal poking out in directions they shouldn’t, mixed with the smell of burnt rubber and a continual hissing sound I can hear coming from somewhere in the distance.

My body takes a moment to tell my brain that I want it to move, but like a caged animal, I’m trapped with no way out.

With my head to the side, my cheek is pressed against something that feels like metal and I’m unable to lift my neck because something hard is stopping me from above. My breathing labored, it sounds wheezy, and I wince as a throbbing sensation builds across my flattened cheekbone.

The smell of gasoline grows stronger by the second as cold liquid soaks into my clothes, wrapping itself around me like a suffocating fog, thick and inescapable.

Overwhelming my senses, the noxious vapor catches the back of my throat, and I dry heave, my stomach doing somersaults from the high levels of toxicity in the tight space.

My jolting movements have me scratching my cheek against the metal below, making my skin sting from the gasoline seeping into what I can only assume is a wound on my face. It burns like the fires of hell, and when I try to reach up to feel it, my arm won’t cooperate. I give it a yank, but I feel nothing, as if it’s not there. I know it is; I can see the shocking pink fabric of my gymnastics leotard that’s covering my shoulder leading to my arm. I’m numb.

That’s when it all hits me at once. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that it’s not true. But when I open them again, it’s still there—my pink leotard—and I know I’m not dreaming.

Riley and I were at gymnastics practice, something I’ve done since I was six years old. I only started because I wanted to belike my big sister, but I absolutely love it and it turns out I’m pretty good at it too, which is a bonus.

Like every Thursday, Mom and Dad picked us up, but instead of going straight home like we usually do, we went for pizza at Franco’s to celebrate Riley and me making the finals for the state championship on Beam which we found out at a meet last weekend and were only celebrating now.

We were driving home.

It was late.

Dark.

Foggy.

Thenbang.

My heart rate spirals out of control as my brain catches up with what happened.

We were in a car crash.

If we hadn’t made the state championships, we wouldn’t have had a reason to celebrate or be out when it was dark.

Breathing harder, I cough frantically as the agonizing fumes continue to fill my lungs, now making my eyes sting and water as well.

Trying to tilt my head back slightly in search of my family, I let out a scream of horror when my eyes fall on my sister’s lifeless body, still in her teal leotard, lying face down on the asphalt outside of the car.

Desperate to get to her, I wiggle my body to free myself, but nothing happens—just more pain, much stronger than before, making the urge to vomit relentless.

Anguish climbs my throat. “Riley.” Her name comes out of my mouth with a crack, my heart mirroring the same physical pain.

“Mom? Dad?” Searching around the inside of the car, I sweep the space, assessing my dire situation. Unable to find my parentsbecause my head is restricted, I call out again in frustration. “Mom? Dad?”

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