The Kindness of Strangers

Prologue

Jimmy was cold, paralyzingly cold, and sticky wet above the waist. Blood soaked his sweater, churned in his throat, filled his lungs.

He tried to move, to turn onto his back, but an iron bar of pain held him in place.

Circling above like seagulls’ squawks were voices discussing, with maddening dispassion, whether he was alive or dead.

None of them tried to help. Why would they.

To be rid of him was their dearest wish.

Honor was smoking—sucking on her eternal cigarette holder—and casually speculating whether his heart was still beating.

Even little Mina seemed unperturbed that a man was dying right there on the carpet.

She might have been watching a scene in a film.

A soft warm hand grabbed his wrist, and he wondered if it meant to pull him from the black hole that swayed beneath, engulfing him with nausea—until, in an instant, all physical sensation ceased and he saw himself lying face down on the floor.

Honor, Georgina, Mina, Saul, and Robbie were cheerfully looking at one another, and at him.

Except it was no longer him; it was only his body.

He hovered somewhere near the ceiling. Slowly, he noticed a sphere of bright white light drawing him higher.

It was surprising, how he longed to submit to the light.

That would mean letting them, all of them, get away with it.

With him gone, their problems would disappear.

And who would mourn him, let alone avenge his death? No one. The injustice was unbearable.