The bridge. My least favorite part. Connecting West Pointe to East Pointe, like a scar across the city. Everyone knows East Pointe is the wrong side of the tracks, the place where things go missing and people go quiet. Dad always tells me to lock my doors, to never stop on this stretch, but it’s the only route home unless I want to add twenty minutes to my drive.
I bite down on my lip, crank the volume higher, and press harder on the accelerator. The faster I cross, the sooner I’ll be safe again, back on the route toward East Pointe where everything is clean and manicured and untouched.
Halfway across, my phone buzzes weakly again—its final gasp before dying. I glance down and groan. Dead. Great. No charger, no lifeline.
By the time I reach the end of the bridge, I spot a convenience store tucked against the edge of the road. Neon buzzing faintly, the kind of place that sells everything and nothing. I swing into the lot, kill the engine, and run inside, the bell chiming overhead.
The shelves are sparse, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, the man at the counter staring at his phone like he’s forgotten customers exist. I dart to the electronics aisle, scanning frantically. No chargers. Not for my model, at least. Of course. My frustration bubbles hot in my chest.
Fine. Whatever. I grab a popsicle from the freezer, toss a crumpled bill onto the counter, and head back out, ripping the wrapper open with my teeth as I slide back behind the wheel. At least sugar will help.
The first few minutes are easy, the road stretching dark and familiar. I lean back, licking at the cherry ice, tapping the wheel in rhythm with the music.
In the rearview mirror, I notice a black, sleek car. A shadow behind me in the mirror. It’s been there for the last few turns. Close enough to notice. Close enough to alarm.
My throat tightens. I grip the wheel harder, glance again. Still there. Same distance. Same rhythm.
I force a laugh at how paranoid I’m being. Harper and I have been bingeingCriminal Mindsevery weekend, and now every shadow looks like a serial killer, every car like a stalker. It’s nothing. Just a coincidence.
I force my shoulders down, turn the music louder, take another lick of the popsicle. I’m fine.
At the next intersection, as I slow to a stop, the car behind me nudges forward, hard, bumping into my bumper. The jolt makes me gasp, my hand flying up, the last of the popsicle slipping from my fingers, hitting the floor.
“What the hell?” I shout, twisting in my seat. The black car gleams in the streetlight, its windows dark, faceless.
I roll my window down halfway, my pulse racing. Maybe it’s an accident. Maybe they’ll apologize. Maybe—
No. My gut screams at me. Instinct, cold and sharp, slicing through the denial. Drive.
I slam the car back into gear, foot pressing hard against the pedal. The engine roars, the tires squeal, and I’m flying forward, heart in my throat.
But it follows.
The headlights flare in my mirror, blinding, the car closing in like a predator. Another bump. Harder this time. My teeth clack together, my hands shaking on the wheel.
Panic claws at my chest. This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t random. Someone is trying to run me off the road.
I reach for my phone automatically, then remember. Dead. Useless. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The road curves, and I fight the wheel, but another hit sends me swerving, tires screeching against the asphalt. My head slams against the side window, white light exploding across my vision.
The smell hits me next—burnt rubber, sharp and acrid. My breath comes ragged, my chest heaving.
I fumble with the seatbelt, my fingers trembling too hard to press the button. Finally, it snaps free, the strap falling away. I look down and see dark drops staining my cheer uniform, spreading slowly. Blood. My blood.
The car door groans as I shove it open, stumbling out into the night. My legs barely hold me, my sneakers sliding against gravel. The world tilts, spins. I try to scream, my throat raw, but it feels like the sound gets trapped somewhere inside me.
The black car is there, idling, its doors swinging open. Two figures step out. Tall. Broad. Dressed head to toe in black. Their faces are hidden, their movements purposeful, slow, terrifying.
“No,” I whisper, stumbling backward, my hands outstretched like that will stop them. My head throbs, my vision blurs, but I force my body to move, to fight, to run.
My legs won’t work. My sneakers slip. I fall to my knees, gravel biting into my skin. I claw at the ground, forcing myself up, but they’re already too close.
I open my mouth, and this time the scream rips free, ragged and broken, tearing out of me.
It’s the last thing I manage before darkness swallows me. A heavy hand shoves fabric over my head, the world vanishing in suffocating black.
And then—nothing.
