I drove to Megan’s house in Natalie’s car, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned the color of old bone. My fingers cramped, locking into a claw-like shape around the leather, but I couldn’t loosen them. If I let go, I felt I might fly off the surface of the earth.
Every red light felt like a trap, a pause in time where he could catch up to me. Every black SUV that appeared in the rearview mirror made my pulse spike, a jagged rhythm hammering against my ribs. I checked the mirror once, twice, ten times a minute. Was that him? Was that the tilt of his head? Was that the personalized plate he was so proud of?
The world outside the windows was blurred and gray, a typical Thursday afternoon, but inside the car, the air was thick with the scent of my own terror—sweat, metallic adrenaline, and the phantom smell of brake fluid.
I parked halfway up the driveway, blocking the path, abandoning the vehicle with the engine ticking as it cooled. I ran to the door.
Megan met me before I could knock. She had her phone in her hand, her face stripped of color. She looked like she had seen a ghost, or perhaps, she was looking at one.
“Okay,” she said, her voice tight, barely opening her mouth. “Explain. Now.”
