The only thing she could be thankful for was that Louis hadn't been trapped here with her.

She stretched harder. Must... have that... paper!

Néomi wasn't certain why it continued to arrive. A past article had recounted the problems inherent with "recurrent billing of credit cards," and she supposed she was the benefactress of her last tenant's credit card negligence. The delivery could end at any time. Every one was precious.

Eventually she gave up, defeated, sitting back in the weed-ridden drive. Out of habit, she made movements as if she was rubbing her thighs, yet felt nothing.

Néomi could never feel. Never again. She was incorporeal, as substantial as the mist rolling in from the bayou.

Thanks, Louis. Oh, and may you rot in hell—because surely that's where you went... .

Usually, at this point in the newspaper struggle, she'd be battling the urge to tear her hair out, wondering how much longer she could endure this existence, speculating what she'd done to deserve it.

Yes, on the night of her death, she'd refused to die, but this was ridiculous.

But even as desperate as she was for the words, she wasn't as badly off as usual.

Because last night a man had come into her home. A towering, handsome man with grave eyes. He might return this night. He might even move in.

She shouldn't get too excited about the stranger, to have her hopes crushed yet again—

Lights blinded her; the shriek of squealing tires ripped through the quiet of the night.

As a car shot forward onto the gravel, she futilely raised her arms to protect her face and gave a silent cry. It drove straight through her, the engine reverberating like an earthquake when it passed through her head.

The vehicle never slowed as it prowled down the oak-lined drive to Elancourt.