I survived, physically. Leaving five bodies behind, I escaped the desert. With three more dead before it was over, Bell one of them, they were all dead. The other survivor didn’t matter. Bunny’s mind was gone. She’d never be able to tell what I’d done. I didn’t need any reminders of those days of terror, not of what I’d done, or the deaths I caused, not with the nightmares and blackouts in the aftermath.
Pratters, the only one who suspected the truth, used my fear of exposure against me. Months after I thought it was all over, he showed up with a brain damaged, crippled man. Dumping Michael on me, he told me I was the only one he could trust. That those he worked with wouldn’t suspect. Making me the one to hide and help Michael, Pratters swore, he’d altered records. No one would know where Michael had gone, both of us would be safe. None of the promises eased the new fears. What of Michael? Oh, my God, I wanted him. Did that make me the whore Bell called me?