Kane sat down and thought about the sound made by Brenda’s skull as it broke on the hood of his Chevy Silverado. The single drum-strike of something hard and hollow, cracking on metal. And that crunch a microsecond earlier. Too close in time to be distinguishable. Yet it was there, in that cluster of sounds. Like a chord on a guitar, the echoes of her clavicle and cervical spine disintegrating. To Kane, it had sounded almost melodic. Like an orchestra unleashing a single blast of music before beginning their overture.
