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335 pages, Hardcover
First published September 6, 2016
On the first day of February, sunny but cold as a frog's balls, a man named Lane Coolman stepped off a flight at Miami International, rented a mainstream Buick and headed south to meet a man in Key West. He nearly made it.
Twenty-seven miles from Coolman's destination, an old green Firebird bashed his car from behind. The impact failed to trigger the Buick's airbags, but Coolman heard the rear bumper dragging. He steered off the highway and dialed 911. In the mirror he saw the Firebird, its grille crimped and steaming, pull onto the shoulder. Ahead stood a sign that read: "Ramrod Key."
Coolman went to check on the other driver, a woman in her mid-thirties with red hair.
"Super-duper sorry," she said.
"What the hell happened?"
"Just a nick. Barely bleeding." She held her phone in one hand and a disposable razor in the other.
"Are you out of your mind?" said Coolman.
The driver's jeans and panties were bunched around her knees. She'd been shaving herself when she smashed Coolman's rental car.