CHAPTER 1

PERLA

That family stuck out right from the start. We were all looking at them, even before it happened.

—Cheryl Higgins, waitress (Tony's Truck Stop)

The woman's face changed right before she fell. She was chewing, her eyes glazed, bored with the conversation at her table, her mind on other things. I watched her because I felt her. I felt that disconnect. Also, watching her was more interesting than listening to Grant talk about birds.

"... What's crazy is that their migratory patterns aren't based on ..."

I swear my husband intentionally set out to pick a hobby that would bore me to death. The other night, he stopped mid-thrust, head raised, ear cocked to one side, because he thought he heard a bearded woodpecker.

The woman could use some fillers in the deep crevices that ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth. It'd make her look ten years younger. I glanced at Grant, making eye contact long enough to prove that I was taking studious mental notes on the fascinating increase in swallows this time of year; then I flicked my gaze down to my plate—a sad display of rubbery grilled chicken, wilted spinach, and a few blueberries—and back to the woman, two booths over, facing me.

She would never be able to afford fillers, so I kept that insight to myself, despite its potential impact on her face. No one in this diner was stepping anywhere near a plastic surgeon's scalpel unless it was for a boob job. The parking lot was a crowded mess of bumper-stickered, cheap vehicles with bald tires and dented fenders. In the midst of them, my Range Rover gleamed, a visual reminder that we were in the wrong place. We should have waited until we got back into town to eat. Instead, we were wedged into a sticky booth with three plates of food that would give us all diarrhea.

The woman's eyes locked with mine. I started to look away but then noticed her fingers clawing at the neck of her Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt, her mouth gaping open. I watched, fascinated, as her eyes rolled toward the ceiling and she tilted to her left, a chubby bowling pin slowly tipping over.

Her arms didn't move, her body was limp, and she fell to the tile without trying to catch herself.

It was a quick, hard hit, and she didn't bounce or roll; she stayed stuck on her side, one arm pinned underneath her, the other suspended in the air like a bicycle kickstand.

A hush fell in a tight knot around her body; then it spread, like a growing pool of blood, infecting each table in an outward circle until everyone in the diner was craning toward the sight, their faces alarmed, reactions ricocheting around the room. I pierced a charred chunk of chicken with my fork and placed it in my mouth, chewing quietly.

A delayed scream came from the woman's tattooed seatmate, who launched her rail-thin body out of the booth and onto her knees beside her friend. Looking frantically around the restaurant, she shrieked, "Someone call 9-1-1! Is anyone here a doctor?"

The room fell silent as heads swiveled—right, left, right. I sighed and set down my fork, then raised my hand.

"Perla," Grant warned, and I shot him a hard look before scooting out of the booth and standing.

A wave of murmurs swelled at my reveal. I snagged a napkin from a dispenser on the next table and wiped my hands clean as I approached the prone woman.

"You're a doctor?" her friend asked as she fisted the woman's shirt.

"Step back," I snapped. "Does she have any food allergies?"

"I—I don't know." The woman looked to the couple beside her for help. "Maggie? Frank? Do you know if Bev has any allergies?"

Bev. She looked like a Bev. I knelt on the sticky tile and rolled the woman onto her back. Running my fingers quickly over the back of her head, I could feel that there was a knot where she had collided with the floor, but no blood or split skin. I bent forward and put my ear close to her mouth, waiting for any sign of breathing.

"She's not breathing," I announced. The room hummed in response, and everyone's attention was on me. Waiting to see if I saved this woman or killed her.

I pulled open her lips and checked her mouth for any food. I worked my fingers down her tongue, trying to see if there was anything there. The thin canal was slimy and warm and I quickly withdrew my hand. "Has someone called 9-1-1?" I asked, sneaking a glance in the direction of our booth. My husband stood at the head of it, our daughter in front of him, both watching my every move.

I bet a burrowing owl could have landed on Grant's shoulder right then and he wouldn't have even turned his head.

"Yes," the waitress said. "They're on their way. They said to begin—"

"CPR," I interrupted, my arms locked and hands linked on the center of Bev's chest, one on top of the other. I started the compressions, counting them in my head as I went. Bev had a thin gold chain with a cross on it, the necklace tangled and bunched in her dingy yellow curls. She looked to be my age—but a much harder thirty-five than me. Her face was a sea of sun damage, with a layer of extra fat that underlined her round chin. I hadn't gotten much from my mother, but I had inherited her expressive brown eyes, slightly upturned nose, and oval face. The crooked smile and emotional damage, I got from my father.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. I stopped and pinched the woman's nostrils shut, noting the chip in my forefinger's polish. I should call first thing in the morning and make an appointment at the salon. I placed my lips on hers and tried not to recoil at the contact. I inhaled and pushed my breath into her mouth, then repeated the action. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Easy, yet everyone was gawking at me as if I were performing miracles.

I loved it.

I pulled off and returned my hands to her chest, resuming the compressions. I was on the seventeenth of the second set when her body shuddered beneath my palms.

"What was that?" Bev's friend still knelt beside me, and I glanced over at her while I continued, annoyed at her proximity. I shifted away from her, my pale-gray slacks rubbing against the floor. I'd have to throw them away after all this.

Bev was coming back to life. I could feel it, and the power rush was intoxicating. I smiled and continued my work. Twenty-five ... twenty-eight ... thirty . I pinched her nose and repeated the breaths, no longer fixating on the fleshy feel of her lips or the emerging zit staring at me from the center of her forehead.

"Come on," I muttered, restarting the compressions, my own heart seeming to sync with the counts as I forced the life back into her.

She coughed, and something flew from her mouth and hit my shoulder. I cursed and stopped the work, rolling her away from me as she coughed again, spittle spraying out.

"Bev!" the friend yelped. "Oh my God, Bev!"

Faint sirens sounded, and I raised my gaze from the woman to my family. My daughter bounced on her toes, grinning at me with pride as the entire restaurant broke into conversation and applause. Someone offered me their hand and I took it, heaving to my feet. Smiling at the room, I raised a hand in acknowledgment of their recognition. Everyone was beaming—everyone except for my husband, who glared at me, his face dark with anger.