Page 5 of Protected from Malice
My heart lurches as I realize the answer to all three questions is yes.
And the car—no, not a car, a pickup truck with the front plate missing—is speeding up.
Closing in on me.
The headlights are so bright they illuminate the inside of my car, showing my white-knuckled fingers clutching the wheel.
Just an aggressive driver, I remind myself.There are plenty of them out there.
Just keep driving. Don’t panic. The next turnoff is three miles ahead, so all I have to do is make it to there.
Or should I pull over? Let them go by?
Unless that’s what they want?
Unless this is one of those terrifying plots I’ve read about, where criminals lurk on empty roads just waiting for an innocent driver to come by. Where they wait until the person pulls over, then attack them. Rob them. Assault?—
God.
My pulse is an entire percussion section echoing in my head.
My chest constricts.
Breathing seems an impossibility.
Behind me, the truck puts on another burst of speed.
Its bumper comes within kissing distance of mine.
Cold sweat breaks out all over my body.
The wheel goes slick in my hands.
I cast a frantic glance around me, searching, hoping for someone else to come along.
But it’s just me and the truck.
The truck that?—
My car jerks forward as the truck bumps into me.
Not hard, but enough to make the steering wheel shake. Hard enough for the seatbelt to dig into my chest. For the tires to skid.
Hard enough for me to fear an actual heart attack.
I don’t think this is someone hurrying to get home.
I think…
My heart flies into my throat as the truck bumps me again.
Instinctively, I jam my foot down on the gas, desperate to get away. Desperate to put some distance between us before the next hit. Because I have a sick feeling they’re not going to stop.
I’m ten miles above the speed limit. Fifteen. Twenty.
Where’s the next turn?
How close is my?—
