Page 2 of Loud Unspoken Memories

Ah, shit.My feet slip out from under me, and I fall hard onto my ass. There must be a thin layer of ice under the inch or two of snow. Before I get up, I see the rear of a car sticking out of a ditch. A Honda or Kia or… definitely something without snow tires. Who the hell comes to the middle of nowhere New York in late November without snow tires? Stupid fucker.

Standing up and getting my footing, I make my way over. The blaring horn is starting to get on my nerves.Mustthe driver keep pressing it? I mean, Jesus.

I freeze when the whole car comes into view. Because I know the driver isn’t pressing the horn. The front end of the small red car is crumpled against the large trunk of a tree. I race over to the driver’s side and try the door. It won’t budge.

I’m almost afraid to look at what lies within. But movement inside the car has me doing it.

It’s a woman. Blood trickles down her forehead and she’s holding her left arm in her right hand.

“Are you okay?” I shout over the horn.

She looks over at me, relieved to see another person, but terrified all the same. “I—I don’t know.”

The hood is mangled and twisted. I’ve become pretty good at knowing car engines. With that knowledge, I reach inside, feel around and finally pull the plug on the horn. Ahh, sweet silence.

Then my stomach hollows with dread when I see the hole in the front windshield. But it’s not the hole that has bile rising in my throat. It’s the empty child’s car seat I see in the middle rear seat.

Terror licks at my heart as I turn and vomit into the fresh snow.

Chapter Two

Martina

What is this guy doing?

I could swear he just tossed his cookies. And now he’s frantically looking around my car like a maniac. Why isn’t he helping me get out? Or at the very least calling 911.

I can’t find my phone that is Lord-knows-where, along with the rest of the contents of my purse that went flying after my car skidded and ran into the tree.

Holding my sore wrist, I wonder what other horrible things are in store for me after the hellish few days I’ve already had.

“Excuse me!” I shout.

It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. He’s searching the ground behind the tree I hit. He’s looking all around the car. What the hell? It’d be just my luck to have wrecked my car in the middle of nowhere and have the only guy around be some unmedicated schizophrenic. Or worse, a serial killer living out in the boonies just waiting for helpless women to drive down his road.

I let my head fall back and rest against the seat. Why did I go off route? I curse my old GPS. Or rather, I curse myself for not paying the few hundred dollars to update it at my last service appointment.

“Hey!” I yell.

The guyhasto hear me; the front windshield is broken.

I look around. Deflated airbags. Broken glass. The hood a crumpled mess. I fear there will be no salvaging this old trusty car. All I can hope is that I can find my phone, call a tow truck, and get to the nearest car rental place.

Taking stock of my injuries, I breathe a deep sigh of relief that I can wiggle my toes, feel all my extremities, and don’tseem to have any kind of whiplash—though I’m no medical professional. For all I know, I have a brain injury that will kill me in five minutes time.

For now though, I focus on the good. With the exception of my wrist, all in all, I dodged a major bullet here.

I think.

Unless the crazy man outside is the bullet.

“Mister!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Are you going to help me out of here or what?”

Finally, he stops looking at the ground and runs over. “How old is your child?”

“Uh, three,” I say, confused as to why he’s asking.

His face goes completely pale, and he turns to scan the ground.

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