Page 35 of No Place Left to Hide

“Of course,” I say automatically. “I think about her all the time. It’s hard not to.”

Silence stretches after my answer.

Then, she asks, “Do you think about what happened?”

My eyes are on the road, but in my mind, I see a flash of water. Jena’s hair fanned across a bench seat. A floating key chain beneath a manicured hand. The road snaps back into focus, and I blink away the memories. “More than anyone, probably.” More than I should. More than is healthy.

“And?”

I take a slow breath and blow it back out again. “And what? It was an accident: you know it, I know it, her parents know it, the cops who investigated know it. Brandon seems to be the only one who doesn’t. He needs someone to blame and that someone is clearly me.”

Jena shrugs. “I guess that’s true.”

“Like I said. Feel free to change the song.”

She starts to say something else, but headlights wash through theback of the Subaru. I wince, and squint into the light reflecting from my mirror.

My stomach drops.

The Bronco is back.

“No,” I breathe. “No, this can’t be happening. Where did they come from?”

Jena looks over her shoulder. “There’s no way that’s the same car, right?”

The headlights sink into the backs of my eyes. “No, there’s a second psychotic driver in a white Bronco who also decided to tailgate us, Jena,” I snap.

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it!” she says, sounding scared for the first time.

The road whips around a sharp turn, then back the other way. The second it straightens out again, the Bronco creeps closer and closer. Fear shoots down my spine.

My fingers tingle in my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. This is not good.

“What do they want?” Jena asks. “Is this road rage or what?”

I swerve to the right, and back again, but it’s like they know what I’m going to do. They mirror our movements. When I’m back in my lane, they flash their brights at me.

“I don’t think this is road rage,” I say. “I need to put some space between us.”

Another long curve veers to the left, and my headlights disappear into open air over the guardrail. I hit the gas, but it doesn’t matter. The Bronco accelerates too, and I drive in full panic as they get closer and closer.

Their front bumper kisses the back of the Subaru.

We lurch forward, and Jena screams.

Eleven

Before

September 2nd

I’m painfully aware we’re being watched. The wall of windows facing the lake is normally a selling point for the house, but tonight it means our whole interaction will be on full display. It feels like we’re onstage, lit up by the porch lights, and everyone in the living room is our audience. Or our witnesses, depending on how this goes.

And Claire is basking in the attention.

“How does it feel to be taken down a peg or two?” she taunts, leaning a hip against the wrought iron railing. She examines her cuticles like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

I have to be very careful about what I do next.

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