Page 30 of No Place Left to Hide

Still, as Jena searches the car for a third time, my doubt solidifies. Did someone steal her phone to rattle me? Because if they did, it’s working. The overwhelming urge to get the hell out of here has me buckling my seatbelt.

I eye the clock in the dash again and my stomach sinks.

10:42 p.m.

Jena moves to check the backseat and I throw out my hand to stop her. “Listen, I’m sure it’s notgonegone. You probably left it at the party, or dropped it along the road near where we parked. I’m sure someone already found it and gave it to Felix, but we can call around when we get back to my house, okay?”

“I can’t go home without my phone, Brooke. This is the third one in a year. My mom is going to lose her—”

“Listen, if we can’t track it down by tomorrow, I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll replace all three if you just get in and let me get the hell out of here. This gas station is giving me the creeps.”

Jena furrows her brows. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. I just really don’t want to be late.” I point at the time.

She studies my face for three or four seconds, like she’s trying to figure out what’s off about me, and I slap on a smile to placate her. Jena’s been mostly oblivious of my No Caller ID stress, and I don’t need that to change tonight. I’m almost free.

“Fine,” she concedes. “But if we can’t track it down, we’re telling my mom I left my phone at your house until it gets replaced. I don’t want to deal with another argument.”

“We’ll go to the store tomorrow. She’ll never know.”

She buckles her seatbelt, grumbling under her breath, and I pull away from the gas station and onto the highway. As soon as we’re in motion again, my anxiety lessens. An eerie gas station is always going to feel more exposed than the highway. Here, I’m encased in steel with the accelerator under my foot. The control is mine. There, I’m a sitting duck surrounded by flammables.

I relax into my seat, which is very toasty thanks to the seat warmer.

Jena plugs my phone back in and hits play on one of my coffeeshop playlists. A quiet indie melody pulses from the speakers andI try to let the music calm that last lingering worry, but nothing will touch it.

Time’s up, Brooke,plays over and over in my head.

We’re almost at the edge of town when the traffic light ahead turns red and I reluctantly slow to a stop. When I do, I realize Jena’s been talking this entire time and I zoned out on all of it.

“… I mean, someone would have to be pretty dumb to steal it. The screen’s locked anyway. It won’t do them any good.Andit’s hooked to my Apple ID, so they literally can’t do anything with it.”

I didn’t miss much, then. Only a monologue about her stupid phone.

My mental wince is a sharp one. It’s not stupid. Jena’s biggest concern may be trivial compared to a full-blown harassment campaign, but it doesn’t make it any less important to her.

The light turns green, and someone pulls up behind me as I start to accelerate. It’s the first car I’ve seen on the road since we left the party, which isn’t all that strange for this area on a Thursday night.

Their headlights are higher than the bottom of my back window, casting their lights straight inside the Subaru and reflecting off my rearview mirror. I look away from the glare and try to put some space between us and regain my night vision.

The vehicle behind me stays right on my ass, accelerating as I do. I’m over the speed limit in a few seconds. The driver doesn’t let up.

What the hell is their problem? I glance at my side mirror and get a better view of the car. It looks like a white Bronco, but not one of the nice ones. It’s an old, beat-up model.

O. J. Simpson style.

I’m vaguely aware of Jena still mumbling about her phone but I can’t concentrate. Is this guy tailgating me on purpose? Did I cut him off when I came out of the gas station and didn’t notice?

No. I’m still stuck on the paranoia.

It’s got to be some asshole who doesn’t like me going five miles over the speed limit on this old highway. He’ll probably pass me as soon as we get off the main drag and it goes back to two lanes.

Except, when the lanes finally split, he doesn’t budge. I turn on my blinker and move to the left lane to get out of his way.

He slides over right behind me.

Anxiety races through my veins. This is so stupid. He’s just a bad driver. He was probably shifting to the left lane to pass me at the same time. I turn on my blinker and go back to the right lane, patiently waiting for him to rev his engine and leave us behind.

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