Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“I know. Just hold on—and if I tell you to get down, get down.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch his gaze dart back and forth between the windshield and the mirror.
“This son of a bitch thinks he’s dealing with an amateur.”
“Please, be careful,” I squeak. It’s amazing I can take a breath with my throat tightened to the size of a pinhole.
The car lurches again when the driver hits the right corner. This time we swerve to the side and turn halfway before Dad steers us over to the center lane.
Dinner’s churning in my stomach and my life is flashing in front of my eyes. There are only so many close calls a person can have before they’ve had one too many. What sucks is there’s no way to know which one is the last until it’s too late to do anything about it.
I’m too young to die. I have too much to live for. Everything was finally starting to click. I was a heartbeat away from officially being engaged. I was about to plan a shopping trip with Dad. He was finally coming around on so many things and looking forward to being a granddad and, damn it, I need more time.
A single thought rings out loud and clear—so clear I can hear it. More like a prayer than a thought.
Mom. Help us, please.
Is this how she felt? Seeing that car bearing down on her, panic rising in her throat, the combination of fear and survival instincts making her foot heavier against the pedal.
No. In her case, it was worse. In her case, she was alone. She went through all of this by herself.
“I can’t shake this son of a bitch!” Dad jerks the wheel to the side while barely avoiding sideswiping a truck. I’m unable to bite back a breathless scream and I can’t help but wonder if she screamed too.
But there was nobody there to hear it…
We weave around a few cars whose drivers lean on their horns. They do it again once our pursuer passes. “Dad, I’m scared.” It doesn’t need to be said, but I can’t hold it in either.
“I know, baby.” He jams on the gas and the sudden burst of speed presses me against my seat. “There’s a police station two exits down, just off the ramp. We can make it there.”
Two exits? No way whoever is driving that car is going to let us make it that far. Not when they’re up our ass again, the lights getting brighter, bigger.
“God damn it!” Dad shouts as he pulls into the right lane, where we swerve onto the gravel at the side of the road before swerving back into place. The car follows us.
When the phone starts ringing in the back seat, frustrated tears fill my eyes. I know who it is—call it instinct, or maybe a mental connection forged over the past few months. It has to be Callum. Maybe he’s calling to see if we’ve arrived yet.
My body moves before my brain knows what it’s doing. I start to turn, to look for the phone, but the car jerks forward and I’m tossed back.
“Face forward!” Dad barks as he fights to regain control.
“It’s probably Callum! We need help!”
“What is he going to do?” he demands, almost leaning over the wheel. The speedometer reads eighty-five but the needle keeps drifting toward ninety. Of all the times for there to be no cops on the road, why is there no one out here to help us?
The question is still running through my head when the pursuer veers to the left, then starts inching closer like he wants to come up alongside us. “Dad, he’s coming!”
“I see that. Hold on.”
Meanwhile the phone continues ringing, and ringing, and all it does is remind me of who’s waiting at home. How will he ever get over this? He will never stop blaming himself. If I could only reach the phone, but every time the car swerves from one side to the other my cell slides along the back seat.
I glance over my shoulder and now that the lights aren’t directly behind us, I can see inside the other vehicle. It doesn’t surprise me to find Dominic Moroni behind the wheel, and it looks like he’s laughing. I could be imagining that, but I don’t think so. I know he’s crazy and that’s exactly what he would do.
He takes his eyes off the road for a second, no more than that, and our gazes lock. He sees me and he knows I see him. All it takes is the slightest turn of the wheel to bump us, hard enough that we skid off the road.
“Motherfucker!” Dad shouts while I scream, bracing myself as the car speeds toward the woods alongside the road.
Everything goes through my head at once: Callum, Tatum, the ultrasound, Mom and Dad, Mom’s funeral, even Lucas. The good mixes with the bad, all of it overlapping in the short time it takes us to tear through the overgrown brush bordering the tree line while Dad slams on the brakes.