Madison limped toward the boulders, only to discover they weren’t really boulders. It was a tree—a large dead tree with mangled bare branches protruding from a wounded, rotted, dry trunk.
She squinted into the darkness and looked all around, wondering what else she’d gotten wrong. From what little she could see, the landscape appeared to be getting tamer, less wild. Which could possibly mean she was creeping closer to civilization and ultimately finding someone who might be able to help her.
Carefully, she maneuvered around the tree carcass, practically rendered delirious thanks to the unbearable pain shooting from her ankle and reverberating through her body. Chances were it was broken, which meant walking on it was only making it worse. Still, with her very survival at stake, there was no stopping now. The prospect of a future spent nursing a bum leg could only pale in comparison to what would amount to a certain gruesome death if she stayed.
Guided by the barest sliver of light, courtesy of the waning moon, Madison stumbled on. Determined to clear her mind of all the things she had to fear, she focused instead on all the wonderful things she’d indulge in once she was safe.
A long, hot bath with her favorite scented bath oils and salts made the top of the list. And even though she rarely drank, a nice cold glass of champagne would also be nice. Then, after a good night’s sleep on her wildly expensive Sferra sheets, she’d rise to a cup of perfectly brewed cappuccino made with whole milk, not skim, since she could afford the extra calories, and with her beloved dog, Blue, by her side, she’d begin collecting evidence, and answers, and plotting revenge.
James, Ryan, Aster, Layla, Tommy, Ira, that nosy Trena Moretti—none of them were above suspicion. Reluctantly, she added Paul to the list. If there was one thing she’d learned on her rise from the ashes to the top of the Hollywood heap, it was that when it came right down to it, the only one she could count on, the only one she could truly trust, was herself.
She was so mired in vengeance fantasies, she missed the sound of staggered breathing, of shoes kicking up dirt—the telling signs of someone rushing up from behind her—until it was too late and they were already on her.
A strong hand grasped her by the arm and yanked her up hard. The fingers circled and pressed into the burn scar in a way that saw her howling in pain, as a hot ragged breath blasted her cheek and a familiar voice said, “Nothing out there but coyotes. You’ll meet your end, you keep going.” Slowly, they started trudging through the sand, dragging Madison back in the direction she came from. “They don’t call this Death Valley for nothing, you know.”