Forcing myself upward, I stand by the trunk avoiding the downwind stench of my own vomit as I use my coat sleeve to wipe my nose. The acrid taste of bile lingers in my mouth, and I spit it out as I hear the same rumble from my trunk.
The phone vibrates again, and this time it doesn't stop. It keeps buzzing over and over, like whoever is trying to reach this man feels desperate to contact him, like they're wondering if he'sdead in a ditch somewhere. It makes me feel sick again, that this guy's family is looking for him while I stand here gawking and throwing up. And I can't just ignore it. I look down at the man's jacket and see the light dancing from his inner jacket pocket against his white dress shirt.
I can't call the police. My phone is dead. I could wave down a passing car, but the highway is nearly deserted, and the thought of flagging down a stranger at this hour makes my skin crawl. I don't know who they'd be. I don't know if they'd help or if they'd make this worse.
And the phone keeps ringing.
I close my eyes, knowing what I have to do. The thought makes my stomach turn, but there's no other option. I step closer to the trunk and reach out, my hand hovering over his jacket. The fabric feels damp under my fingertips as I slide my hand into the inner pocket, moving carefully, trying not to think about the fact that I'm touching a dead man. And when I find the phone, my fingers close around it and I pull it free.
The screen is lit up, the caller ID a private number. I stare at it for a moment, then swipe to answer. But before I can say anything, the call ends. The screen goes dark, and the phone powers off.
I press the button on the side, holding it down until the screen lights up again. The phone boots slowly, the logo appearing and then fading. When it finally unlocks, I open the dial pad and start typing 9-1-1.
The screen goes black.
I freeze, staring at the phone. I press the button again, and the screen lights up, but as soon as I try to dial, it shuts off. I trythree more times, and each time, the result is the same. The phone won't stay on long enough for me to make a call, and when I try again this time, a notification appears at the top, a text message preview that makes my blood run cold.
Unknown number: 12:18 PM: Riley Maddox, I know who you are. Answer the phone.
The phone starts ringing.
I stare at the screen with my pulse roaring in my ears. The nameRileyMaddoxglows in the notification bar, and it freaks me out. I spin around, looking up and down the highway to make sure no one is watching me. A few cars have passed, but no one has stopped and it's dark out. I can't see a fucking thing. I don't know if someone is hiding off in the distance somewhere watching me.
Whoever this is fucking with me, it's really starting to piss me off. And scare me too. I have no way to get help and I have no way to protect myself. All I can do is answer the phone like the message says and pray whoever it is doesn’t hurt me.
"Hello," I mumble into the phone, still scanning the highway in fear.
The voice on the other end is male, low and steady. "Riley."
I grip the phone tighter. "Who is this?"
"That doesn't matter right now." The man's voice is gravelly and stern. "What matters is that you listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you."
I swallow hard around a dry lump in my throat. "How do you know my name?"
"I know a lot more than your name." He pauses, and I hear the faint sound of movement on his end, a door closing, maybe, or footsteps on concrete. "I know you're standing on the side of the highway about twenty-three miles outside the city. And I know you just found what's in your trunk."
My stomach drops as I look down at the body. So either this fucker was following me, or he watched me get in my car in the garage, or something else much sicker is going on.
"Who are you?" I ask again, feeling a little bolder.
"Someone who needs you to do exactly as I say," he says calmly, like I’m supposed to just listen to him. "You're gonna bring him to me. It's that simple."
"I can't drive," I say, my words spilling out faster now. "I have a flat tire. That's why I pulled over. I was trying to?—"
"I know about the tire," he interrupts. "Change it."
I scoff and feel myself getting angry. "Are you fucking serious?"
"Completely."
My eyes clench shut as I curl my hand into a fist. "I'm not doing this. I'm not?—"
"Yes, you are." Now he sounds upset, like he's not playing around, and I get the sudden impression that I'm not dealing with a normal person. "Because if you don't, Riley, you're next."
The line goes dead.
Moments later, another text comes in with an address listed, and I assume that's where I'm supposed to be taking this dead man who found his way into my life.
