Excerpt from The Last Secret by Mary McGarry Morris, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"No!" His voice thickens with anger. "I can't wait! I'm gonna fall asleep. We hafta do it now!" As if for inspection he straightens, lifts his chin, stares at her. "I come fast," he promises with the pathetic, earnest dignity born of a lifetime justifying inadequacies. "And I don't slobber around after."

The Mustang's shadowy hump rises from the side of the building. From here the man can't see Eddie crouched in back.

"See, you don't know . . . you don't understand . . . this isn't what you think," she whispers. "This isn't–"

"I know what this is!" the man shouts, his narrow face hatefully contorted. "It's a quick fuck before you go fuck your pimp on my fuckin' twenty bucks."

"No! Please! Listen!" With the press of sweat, his, hers, unwashed, vile, her knees sway. "I have to get out of here!"

"C'mere." He's trying to kiss her mouth. "You sweet . . . sweet . . ."

"Where's your car?"

"He said his car . . ." Gesturing, he teeters.

"No! He's in there. In the back, waiting! C'mon!" She grabs his arm.

" 'Magine . . ."

It seems the longest walk through the heat, jagged and spitting light from the gigantic pink and lime green flower, flashing overhead, obscene against the stars and the high white peel of moon. Nearing the Mustang she senses Eddie's dark coil about to spring. She runs toward the man's car, pulling him with her.

"Hurry!" she hisses as he fumbles in his pocket.

"Oh, Jesus." He peers at the loose keys in his palm. "She can't wait . . . here . . . here, she goes," he mutters, finally unlocking the door. She scrambles inside, pushes down the lock on her side.

"Lock it!" she cries through the trapped heat.

Instead, he is rolling down his window, entreating her thickly to be patient. The Mustang door flies open and Eddie jumps out.

"Close it!" She leans, reaching across him to do it herself.

"Oh, you," the man moans, forcing her head into his lap.

"No!" she groans, hitting him. She sits back. Blood trickles down her chin. His ring, nails, something has cut her lip. "Start the car! Just start the car!"

The man's window darkens. Eddie's hand darts in, opens the door. One knee braced on the seat, he jams the heel of his hand into the man's nose, shoves him against her. "Grab him! Hold him!" Eddie yells, face taut in the dim overhead light as he pins the man down. His struggling, oily head grinds against her chest. His whimpering pleas sicken her.

Through the distant night comes a probing yellow eye, the train's steel and wooden clatter, the hard-beating ruckus of the song:

So glad we made it, So glad we made it, You gotta gimme some lovin', Gimme some lovin' . . .

Breaking free, the man lurches forward, reaches under the seat. A lead pipe. He swings and Eddie knocks it from his hand.

"Asshole! Stupid asshole!" Eddie's eyes widen, his nostrils flare with the grin of gleaming teeth as the pipe splits the man's face in two. The man jerks forward, arms cradling his head. "What'd you do that for?" Eddie keeps demanding in a high, gasping voice, of her, of her, of her as the pipe smashes the man's head until he sags against the steering wheel.

Opening the door, she half falls, half slides, crawling, then running, across the road toward the looming yellow light. Crossing the tracks, she waves her arms and screams into the deafening commotion. "Help me! Help me!" Freight and tank cars roar by, parallel with the roadbed. "Help me! Help me! Help me!" she pants, running with the clattering train. In the gaps between cars, come flashes of headlights, going in the same direction as the train. "Oh, Eddie," she cries, head back, arms pumping as she runs faster than she has ever run. "Eddie!" she sobs, teary phlegm leaking into her bloody mouth.

Excerpted from The Last Secret by Mary McGarry Morris Copyright © 2009 by Mary McGarry Morris. Excerpted by permission of Shaye Areheart Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.