Read Crash (Visions (Simon Pulse)) for Free Online Page B

she’s on the phone, because if we can really get her going, she’ll snort. “Hey, Trey, do you wanna see—” I say.
    “Harry Potter?”
    “No—”
    “Boobies?”
    I crack up, and Tony shakes his head and gives a reluctant laugh, but Rowan stays concentrated on her phone order. She’s always been wound up pretty tight, and it takes a while to get her loose enough. Apparently today is not that day. By the time the lunch crowd dwindles and we’re all in the kitchen stocking up supplies and making boxes and chopping more veggies, Rowan is answering call after call, ignoring us while we’re making dumb “dot-com” and “that’s what she said” jokes after every twelve-inch meatball sub order she reads back.
    Yet, in the back of my mind, I’m agonizing. Wondering if tonight is the night.
    When it’s time to start, we get serious. “I’ll take the east-side deliveries,” I say to Trey. “I know the streets better.” I lean against the door with my first loaded-up pizza sweater—that’s what Tony calls the insulating bag.
    Trey shrugs, distracted by the crap ton of orders thatare piling up. “That’s fine. We need to move it. Don’t speed, but don’t linger.”
    “I know,” I say. “I’m heading out.” With a wave, I push out the back door into the cold, snowy afternoon. I try to drive by Angotti’s every chance I get.

Thirteen
    The afternoon flies by. Mom keeps up with the few tables in the dining room, and Rowan stays in the back pulling pizzas out of the oven, cutting them and boxing them up, keeping watch out the back door so she can see us coming and run them out to us so we don’t have to park and come in for our next load.
    The slick roads are slowing us down. I’m not afraid to drive in snow, but it’s frustrating when customers don’t understand that weather is a factor in how fast we get the food out. But the upside is that the later into the evening we get, the drunker the customers get, and for most of them that means they tip more.
    I manage to drive by Angotti’s twice even though I really don’t have time, and everything looks okay inside. Ifthe crash is going to happen tonight, there’s nothing I can do about it. And somehow, in the midst of all this driving and thinking today, I realize that I absolutely do have to do something about this. I have to tell Sawyer. Because what if this vision thing is not just a big weird nothing? What if something really happens to him? To all nine of them? How’s that going to make me feel for the rest of my life? It would be worse to do nothing and feel horrible forever than to say something and make a temporary fool out of myself. And, hell, maybe I am nuts. Maybe I just need to do that one over-the-edge cry-for-help thing that’ll get my illness noticed and give me the treatment I apparently need. That’s what all the experts say on TV, you know. Here’s my big blaring chance to be heard.
    I head toward Traverse Apartments, which is across the street from where “the incident” happened on Christmas Eve. My thoughts turn to that night, that walk through the shadows of the apartment complex trying to find 93B, that prickly feeling at the back of my neck and the sweat that came out of nowhere when I heard pounding feet and felt the guy grab my coat.
    It all went really fast. The guy shoved my pizza bag up at my face and slung his arm around my neck, staying behind me so I couldn’t see him. He ripped my little money belt off me and shoved me into a snowy bush, face-first. And then I heard a click of a knife by my ear.I couldn’t even scream—my throat was paralyzed. My whole body was paralyzed. I was so scared I couldn’t even react to wipe the burning snow from my face. I was like some stupid bunny in the street when he sees the lights of an oncoming car and waits for a tire tread to hit him in the face.
    I heard a door slam and a rush of footsteps as apparently some stranger came flying out of one of the buildings and tackled