Right as I’m about to die, I realize all the myths are fake. There’s no white light at the end of the 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.