Right as I'm about to die, I realize all the myths are
fake. There's no white light at the end of a tunnel. My
life isn't flashing before my eyes. All I can think about
is how much I want to live.
I moved to New York City a month ago to become the best
journalist the world had ever seen. To find the greatest
stories never told. And now here I am—Henry Parker, twenty-
four years old and weary beyond rational thought, a bullet
one trigger pull from ending my life.
I can't run. Running is all Amanda and I have done for the
past seventy-two hours. And I'm tired. Tired of knowing the
truth and not being able to tell it.
Five minutes ago I thought I had the story all figured out.
I knew that both of these men—one an FBI agent, the other
an assassin—wanted me dead, but for very different reasons.
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