The vibration of the titanium portcullis slamming into the concrete traveled straight up Jane’s shins and rattled her teeth.
Dust plumed in the harsh, white halogen light. The air in the arena instantly smelled of cordite, ozone, and the hot copper stench of ruptured bowels.
Jane didn't scream.
Her brain severed the emotional nerve with a clean, surgical snap. The dissociation crashed over her like freezing water. She looked through the four-inch gaps in the reinforced bars.
Her father was dead. He lay crumpled against the far wall of the pit. His neck was bent at a perfect, impossible ninety-degree angle. He was wearing his favorite Italian loafers. The left one was badly scuffed. That was the only thought Jane’s mind allowed her to process. The shoe was ruined.
"I didn't invite him,
