Killing Me

Also by Michelle Gagnon Kidnap & Ransom The Gatekeeper Boneyard The Tunnels Young Adult Novels Unearthly Things Don’t Let Go Don’t Look Now Don’t Turn Around Strangelets G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publishers Since 1838 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC penguinrandomhouse.com Copyright © 2023 by Michelle Gagnon Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gagnon, Michelle, author. Title: Killing me / Michelle Gagnon. Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2023. Identifiers: LCCN 2023004703 (print) | LCCN 2023004704 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593540749 (Hardcover) | ISBN 9780593540756 (Ebook) Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Humorous fiction. | Novels. Classification: LCC PS3607.A35862 K55 2023 (print) | LCC PS3607.A35862 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230208 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023004703 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023004704 Cover design: Kaitlin Kall Cover images: (Vegas) Brian Finke / Gallery Stock; (key)JuliarStudio / iStock / Getty Images Plus book design by kristin del rosario, adapted for ebook by maggie hunt This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. pid_prh_6.0_143456479_c0_r0 To everyone who’s had to pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and start all over again. You better run. —Pat Benatar Chapter One You Only Live Once The worst part was that I felt stupid. Well, that’s not entirely true. The real worst part was that I was tied up in the back of a van with a hood over my head, and based on recent news reports, something truly horrific was about to happen. But feeling stupid was definitely second worst. I’d followed every campus safety alert and obsessively read every news article. Johnson City, Tennessee, wasn’t the kind of place where anything of significance ever happened, and then—whammo! It was the hunting grounds for a serial killer. The population of sixty-six thousand seemed to have doubled overnight: satellite news vans lined Main Street (yes, there was an actual, honest-to-God Main Street); the Holiday Inn was fully booked, which never happened outside of college reunion weekends; and the Johnson City Tribune finally had articles that didn’t involve the school board or city council. The killings were all anyone talked about in the Foodtown checkout line, over drinks at the Crow Bar, heck, even at the local strip club (suffice it to say, I’ve explored the local adult entertainment options). Like me, the victims were all petite brunettes in their early twenties. Those similarities had elicited a tingle of excitement—the “it could’ve been me” awe of someone who missed a flight that crashed. Although I was equally certain that only a real idiot fell victim to a serial killer. That sort of thing happened to wide-eyed innocents who offered to help a guy with a fake cast load something into his van. I wouldn’t fall for the old “Can you give me directions?” or “Help, I’m on crutches!” tricks. Not me, no way. Well, ha ha. The joke was on me. Because it turns out I’d been exactly as dumb as those other girls. Will I be his fifth victim, or the sixth? It was a strange thing to focus on, but while I lay on the floor of the van (of course it was a van), rocking from side to side as we drove along a bumpy road, that number seemed terribly important. Calm down, I told myself. There was an FBI task force dedicated to the case; the Tribune claimed they’d basically taken over the Johnson City Police Department. An intrepid agent was probably already on my trail, they’d surely find a critical clue just in time to save me— Except there were no clues; we hadn’t scuffled, and I hadn’t dropped anything. Stupid, I chastised myself again. The bastard hadn’t even done something clever to trick me. Just past dusk I had been walking back to my crappy apartment in the University Edge complex, so named because it was inconveniently located at the campus’s farthest reach. I’d been mulling over the meager contents of my fridge, wondering if putting strawberry jelly on leftover rice qualified as dinner. Consequently, I’d barely registered the white van pulling to the curb fifty feet ahead. A guy in a delivery uniform got out and lumbered around to the side panel, completely ignoring me. I considered crossing the street, but when he grabbed a vase of flowers from inside and turned toward the house, I figured I was just being paranoid. So I continued toward him. Then he literally butted me into the van. For a second, I thought it was an accident. I was opening my mouth to chew him out when the panel door slid shut and he was on me. I struggled, but within seconds he’d slapped a piece of duct tape across my mouth and jabbed me in the neck with a needle. When I came to, I was bound up like a sushi roll. If it hadn’t been so terrifying, it would’ve been downright comical. Imagine a surveillance video (not that there were any in this podunk town) of me getting catapulted into a van by a guy’s ass. If serial killers put out blooper reels, that would be on it. I was about to chuckle when my brain helpfully reminded me, You’re going to die. I started hyperventilating, which, trust me, is not fun when you’re gagged, hooded, and barely able to breathe through your nose. I was still getting over a cold, too, so survival depended on my marginally less congested left nostril. Calm the fuck