Page 178 of Sincerely, Your Enemy

Lacey

My grip tightens around the steering wheel as the two men approach my car.

The first thing I notice is how stiff they both are. They don’t seem at ease for some reason. Best way I could describe it is their movements lack fluidity.

My pulse quickens when the taller officer comes to a standstill near the driver’s side of my car and taps on my window. I inhale a sharp breath before lowering the glass to talk to him.

“Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you. We saw you leaving the club earlier. We just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been drinking.”

It makes sense. They’re trying to save lives by preventing a bunch of wasted kids from taking the wheel, but for a reason I can’t pinpoint, their explanation doesn’t settle my nerves.

“I haven’t had a drop of alcohol all night,” I answer.

Only then do I drink in their appearance.

The taller cop has a dark, thick beard. I take a moment to assess his uniform and instantly notice that the patches on it are poorly stitched. Not only that, the color seems a little off. Washed out, even.

I can’t see the other officer much because there are close to no streetlights on this road, but he’s standing behind hiscolleague with his hands in his pocket. He keeps glancing around, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Glad to hear it. Then you won’t mind stepping out of the vehicle and walking a straight line for us, will you?”

The warning bells I’d ignored earlier explode in volume, becoming harder to ignore. Something isn’t right here.

I don’t know what the hell is happening, but every nerve in my body is screaming at me not to get out of that car.

God, what if I’m crazy and these guys are just doing their job? Then I’ll get in trouble for not complying.

I force a smile. “That won’t be necessary, will it?”

The tall man’s eyes flash with irritation. He restores his poker face in no time but not quickly enough.

“I’m afraid it will. We’re not taking any chances with that sort of thing,” he argues.

“Why don’t I just give you my license and registration? Isn’t that what you guys usually do? That or maybe you can run my plates. You’ll see that I’ve never driven under the influence in my life,” I suggest.

The fact that I had toaskthem to check my license raises another red flag.

“Miss, I won’t ask you again. Step out of the vehicle, please.”

That’s what does it for me. I don’t care if these guys really are cops. I feel unsafe.

“Fine. Just let me turn off the music first,” I say before grabbing my phone. I select my music app and pause my playlist, but what they don’t know is that I’m also using the Emergency SOS feature on my phone and triple-pressing the side button to call 911.

The screen immediately displays a countdown, informing me that the call will be initiated in a few seconds.

“All right, now out of the car,” the man insists, and I don’t like his tone.

“On second thought, could I see your badge number? You can never be too careful,” I say, desperate to buy myself some time.

The irritation on his face morphs into raw anger, his eyes burning with malice. It’s clear he’s had enough of my arguing, and he lifts his arm to his chin to rub his beard, as if in an attempt to keep his temper in check.

That’s when I see it.

The broken skull tattoo on his forearm.

Images of that night Sierra nearly got taken flash in front of my eyes. I’ve seen that tattoo before. On one of the men trying to take her. The truth crashes into me like a meteorite.

These men aren’t cops.

---