Again I see that fire in her eyes. That spark of rebellion that drove her to leap off a cliff rather than let Rocco put his hands on her. “You know,” I say, “I always thought you were a Mozart kinda girl. That was pretty fuckin’ metal.” “That impresses you?” Zoe raises a soot-black eyebrow. “Jumping off a cliff?” “I mean . . . yeah. Assuming you survive.” I swallow hard, looking at her closely. “You are gonna survive, aren’t you, Zoe?” She’s silent for a moment, then she lets out a sigh. “Yeah,” she says. “For now.” It’s the closest thing to a promise I’m going to get out of her.
