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She could see the lights of the train and the parking lot, but where she was standing was pitch black. She took out her silver vial and unscrewed the top. She scooped out a pile of cocaine with the little spoon and snorted it up one nostril, then the other. It was an exquisite moment as the drug charged through her brain like a stampede of white lightning. “Hot damn, “she whispered, and gave her head a little shake as she exhaled. She felt so good. So perfect. Because of the deal she’d just pulled off . And the money she was going to make. And handsome Marc, waiting for her in the City with all of that cocaine. A spasm of euphoria coursed through her body in a delicious wave of pleasure. Neurons and endorphins danced in her brain like fi reworks on the Fourth of July. She’d never been so happy.
She’s about to light a cigarette when the lights start to dim. It happens so quickly there’s no time to react. Th ere’s just a hint of pain, but it’s too brief to register. Th en there’s nothing. Only blackness. And just like that Sandra Ellison’s life is at an end. Like someone reached in and turned off the set. Her set. Th at’s how quickly it happened. She was dead before she hit the ground.
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