John Doe by Tess Gerritsen

her parents were dead. That her life was screwed up.
    As they drove away, she sat hugging herself in the back seat, remorseful but too proud to apologize. Tomorrow, I’ll be nicer to them, she thought. I’ll help Barbara set the table, maybe even wash Bob’s car. Because damn, this car sure does need it.
    “Bob,” said Barbara. “What’s that car doing over there?”
    An engine roared. Headlights hurtled toward them.
    Barbara screamed: “ Bob! ”
    The impact threw Claire against her seatbelt as the night exploded with terrible sounds. Shattering glass. Crumpling steel.
    And someone crying, whimpering. Opening her eyes, she saw that the world had turned upside down, and she realized that the whimpers were her own. “Barbara?” she whispered.
    She heard a muted pop , then another. Smelled gasoline. She was suspended by the seatbelt, and the strap cut so deeply into her ribs that she could scarcely breathe. She fumbled for the release. It clicked open and her head thumped down, sending pain shooting up her neck. Somehow she managed to twist around so she was lying flat, the shattered window in view. The smell of gasoline was stronger. She squirmed toward the window, thinking about flames, about searing heat and flesh cooking on her bones. Get out, get out. While there’s still time to save Bob and Barbara! She punched through the last pebbly fragments of glass, sent them clattering onto pavement.
    Two feet moved into view and halted in front of her. She stared up at the man who blocked her escape. She could not see a face, only his silhouette. And his gun.
    Tires shrieked as another car roared toward them.
    Claire jerked back into the Saab like a tortoise withdrawing into the safety of her shell. Shrinking from the window, she covered her head with her arms and wondered if this time the bullet would hurt. If she would feel it explode in her skull. She was curled so tightly into a ball that all she heard was the sound of her own breathing, the whoosh of her own pulse.
    She almost missed the voice calling her name.
    “Claire Ward?” It was a woman.
    I must be dead. And that’s an angel, speaking to me .
    “He’s gone. It’s safe to come out now,” the angel said. “But you must hurry.”
    Claire opened her eyes and peered through her fingers at the face staring sideways through the broken window. A slender arm reached toward her and Claire cowered from it.
    “He’ll be back,” the woman said. “So hurry.”
    Claire grasped the offered hand and the woman hauled her out. Broken glass tinkled like hard rain as Claire rolled onto the pavement. Too quickly she sat up, and the night wobbled around her. She caught one dizzying glimpse of the overturned Saab, and had to drop her head again.
    “Can you stand?”
    Slowly Claire looked up. The woman was dressed all in black. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, the blond strands bright enough to reflect a faint glimmer from the streetlamp. “Who are you?” Claire whispered.
    “My name doesn’t matter.”
    “Bob — Barbara —” Claire looked at the overturned Saab. “We have to get them out of the car! Help me.” Claire crawled to the driver’s side and yanked open the door.
    Bob Buckley tumbled out onto the pavement, his eyes open and sightless. Claire stared at the bullethole punched into his temple. “Bob,” she moaned. “ Bob! ”
    “You can’t help him now.”
    “Barbara — what about Barbara?”
    “It’s too late.” The woman grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “They’re dead, do you understand? They’re both dead.”
    Claire shook her head, her gaze still on Bob. On the pool of blood now spreading like a dark halo around his head. “This can’t be happening,” she whispered. “Not again.”
    “Come, Claire.” The woman grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me. If you want to live.”

About the Author
    Tess Gerritsen is a physician and an internationally bestselling author. She gained