Heather's throat burned from screaming. The cuffs cut deeper into her wrist as she strained, dragging the edge of the heavy table in a vain attempt to follow them.
The door slammed shut.
She was alone.
Her breath hitched, chest heaving from the panic setting in like cold water filling her lungs. The stench of sweat, cheap perfume, and something acrid, vomit, maybe, choked the air. The boy's body lay sprawled just feet from her, eyes still open, glassy with death. His hand was outstretched toward her, fingers curled like he'd been reaching for help.
Heather shut her eyes tight. She couldn't look. She couldn't cry. She couldn't afford it.
*They're going to pin this on me.*
Every second felt like a nail being hammered into her coffin. She tried pulling her hand again. "God, please," she whispered through clenched teeth. Her wrist bled now, the metal bite of the cuff having sliced through skin. She turned toward the floor, biting down a scream.
