1
RILEY
Ilock the door to my studio apartment at eleven forty-three on a Tuesday night, my duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a garment bag containing my bridesmaid dress draped across my other arm. The hallway stinks again, Mr. Carter's horrible sauerkraut. Makes me glad I'm headed home for a month of holiday festivities and wedding prep. I take the stairs because the elevator's been broken since October, and when I push through the building's front door, the November air bites at my face.
The slog to the parking garage feels farther away tonight with my bags in tow, but I'm full of holiday spirit and expectation of a great trip. I barely notice when I try to open the wrong car, parked a few spaces down from my own vehicle—which should've been obvious to me since my right mirror is duct taped on thanks to a side swipe incident. I've never noticed this car here before, but New York is a big city.
When I finally figure out that this stranger's car isn’t going to open with my key fob, I open the back door of my own sedan and toss my duffel across the seat, then lay the garment bag flatbeside it so the dress won't wrinkle. My mom will inspect it the second I walk through the door in Buffalo, and I already know she'll find fault with how I packed it.
Chuckling to myself about Mom's nagging, I close the door and walk around to the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel. The leather seat's cold through my jeans, and I start the engine, letting it idle while I adjust the heat. Then I drop my phone in the cup holder and notice the battery is only at twelve percent, and my charger is packed in the duffel, which I turn over my shoulder to glare at.
I don't want to get back out to get it, and I know the way like the back of my hand. I'll charge it when I get home, or when I have to stop to pee. No sense in freezing myself again when the car's just starting to warm up.
As I pull into traffic, I yawn a little. Starting the drive so late makes it harder to stay awake. I'll need some coffee soon. But it means fewer cars on the highway, which allows me to drive a bit faster and make better time—something my sister would lecture me about, my speeding.
I don't know what I'm gonna do without her. She'll be married in six weeks' time and I'll still be a lonely, single woman with no prospects. And all that sisterly nagging she does, which she inherited from Mom, will be turned into nagging her new husband—who I might add is really fucking hot. If he hadn't asked Lila out when he had, I'd have asked him out.
I reach the on-ramp to the highway and merge into the right lane. The traffic thins out as I leave the city limits behind, and soon, there's only the occasional truck I'm rumbling in the left lane. I turn on the radio, flipping through static until I find a station playing classic rock I barely know lyrics to, but it's catchy—until about forty minutes into my drive when I hear a funny noise from the back end, and vibration starts to shimmy the wheel.
At first, I think it's the radio cutting out, but it's not. It's a low, rhythmic thumping that doesn't match the beat of the song. I turn the volume down, and the sound only gets louder, coming from somewhere behind me. "Fuck's sake," I grunt as I ease off the gas, and the thumping slows but doesn't stop.
This is the last thing I need right now, to have to change a tire or call roadside assistance when I just started the drive. But I can't keep going and just turn up the radio as if it'll make the mechanical malfunction less important.
The car drifts to the side of the road and the tires crunch in the gravel as I pull off the shoulder and slow to a stop. The car bumps and rocks as the right side dips into grass and I put the car in park.
I sit there for a moment and stare at my phone, now at one percent thanks to a stretch of town where services are lacking and my phone has to search the entire time, and I know even if I wanted to call roadside assistance, I won't have the battery to do so. Which means I'm changing a flat on the side of the highway, alone, in the middle of the night.
I drop my phone back in the cup holder and get out of the car just as a semi zips past, pushing a hard breeze that bites my skin. I hate being cold. I hate night time, and I hate being in situations like this. But I walk to the offending back tire and crouch down, running my hand along the top. The rubber's flat, the rim pressing against the pavement. No way I'm going anywhere with this sucker, and with the obvious bolt protruding from it, there's no way I'm going to be able to plug it, either.
Just what I need—an expensive car repair too. This thing is all-wheel drive and the service center told me last time when I replace one tire, I have to do them all, which means a grand at least. "F. M. L," I grunt and stand up, rubbing my forehead with one cold hand. If Dad were here, he'd whip that tire right out and fix it for me, but I'm on my own, learning thatFather knows bestisn't a saying for the weak. This is the reason he made me learn to change a flat.
So back to the front I go where I pull the trunk latch and press the button for my hazard lights, which start flicking on and off immediately.
When I round the car and open the trunk, the interior light flickers on.
And there's a man inside.
I gasp, looking around instantly to see if anyone is around here, and I stifle a scream that wants to come out.
The man's curled on his side, his knees drawn up toward his chest, his face turned away from me. His jacket is dark, maybe black or navy, and his hands are tucked against his body.
I freeze as my brain tries to process what I'm seeing and reconcile the image in front of me with the reality I know to be true. I locked my car when I went upstairs to get my bags. I know I did. Or I think I did, and how the fuck did some man get in my trunk? And is he dead?
Is this fucker just dead in my car now?
I take a step back, my hand still gripping the edge of the trunk as I try not to retch. I force myself to lean forward, to get a betterlook at his face, pushing him once to see if he budges, but he doesn’t move.
His eyes are closed. His skin is pale, almost gray in the dim trunk light. There's no rise and fall to his chest at all.
He's dead. Christ. I have a dead man in my car.
I stumble backward, and before I'm thinking, my stomach is erupting. I fall on my knees beside the car, throwing up every bit of my supper and that cup of eggnog I drank at dinner. It burns coming up and my eyes are burning with tears. I can't even call the fucking cops because my phone is dead too.
This can't be happening. I’m on the side of a fucking highway with no one around to help me, and cars are just driving past like this is normal. But there's a dead body in my car that I did not put there, and I have no way to explain it.
A faint vibration breaks through the roaring in my ears. It's coming from him—from his pocket. I hear it now, a low buzzing that repeats every few seconds. His phone is ringing? Oh God…
My car was safely in a secure garage. How on earth could someone put a dead body in the trunk? This is insane. I'm barely able to comprehend my life under normal circumstances and this just takes the cake.
