As Emilio locks up behind us, a ripple of unease crawls under my skin. The parking lot is nearly empty, save for a few cars and a single flickering streetlight that throws light in erratic bursts.Every shadow feels like it’s breathing, and the sound of Emilio’s keys jingling is deafening in the quiet.
He unlocks his truck and opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in. The leather seat is cold, stiff beneath my legs. He closes the door, rounds the front to the driver’s side, and climbs in. He jams his key into the ignition and turns it on, and the low rumble of the engine fills the silence. For a few moments, neither of us speaks.
The city fades behind us in streaks of orange and white, the glow of the streetlights thinning into long stretches of dark asphalt and the occasional neon sign buzzing in the distance. The roads are mostly empty, the world reduced to the rhythmic sweep of headlights cutting through the night. I count the pools of light as they pass—one, two, three—anything to keep my mind from slipping back into fear.
Then I feel the shift. Emilio’s posture stiffens. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his palms.
“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. He does this several times. “Someone’s following us,” he says finally, his voice low and tense.
A chill rushes through me. I twist in my seat, peering out the back window. Headlights glow faintly several car lengths behind us. “How can you be sure?”
We were only a couple of miles from his apartment, and this was a relatively busy road, albeit not at this very moment, but still.
“I’m not sure yet,” he mutters, scanning the road ahead. “Let’s find out.”
He takes a sharp right turn onto a side street. My shoulder slams lightly against the door from the sudden motion. I watchthrough the mirror as several seconds later, the headlights follow. Emilio’s jaw tightens. He takes a left, then another right. The headlights mirror every turn.
My heartbeat drums against my ribs as we take another hard right, only for them to be right on our fucking ass again. “Emilio…”
“I see them,” he says, voice clipped. “Hang on.”
He speeds up, tires squealing as he weaves down a narrow side street lined with closed shops and shadowed alleys. The headlights stay close, just far enough to taunt us. Emilio takes another turn, then another, faster this time. The world outside blurs—a jumble of yellow streetlamps, broken fences, and the gleam of wet pavement.
He finally pulls into a narrow lane behind a warehouse and cuts the lights. The truck idles quietly, its engine ticking as we sit there, the sound of our breathing loud in the cabin. I twist in my seat again, looking out every window I can.
Nothing.
After another minute, Emilio exhales, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “I think we lost them.”
I don’t know if I fully believe him, but I nod anyway. He drives slowly through the side streets, looking into every space big enough to conceal a vehicle. He eases the truck forward again, crawling through side streets until we emerge back onto Speedway Boulevard. The traffic lights ahead cycle through their colors for no one. Emilio’s gaze flicks between the mirror and the road as he accelerates.
“Emil—”
Blinding headlights surge toward us, and Emilio’s name dies on my tongue. The impact hits like an explosion. Metal whines and glass bursts around us like a hailstorm, glittering in the dark. My head slams against the window, the seatbelt biting intomy shoulder as the truck rolls—once, twice, then again. Each rotation steals the breath from my lungs.
When it finally stops, we’re upside down. The world has gone eerily quiet except for the hiss of the engine and the slow drip of leaking fluid. My ears ring so hard it feels like a scream. I can taste blood, metallic and sharp, on my tongue.
“Rae!” Emilio’s voice cuts through the haze, frantic but alive.
I turn toward him, heart hammering. Blood trickles down his temple. “Emilio,” I cough out.
“Hold on, baby, I’ll get us out of here,” he says as he fumbles for something in his pocket.
Something slips from his grasp, clattering against the crushed roof above us. “Shit—” He reaches again, fingers scrabbling for it. When he finally grasps the object, he opens it, revealing a pocket knife. He quickly saws through his seatbelt, dropping heavily to the ceiling, then cuts mine loose.
The second I fall free, he grabs me and pulls me close. “It was him,” I rasp, tears brimming in my eyes. “I know it was him. He didn’t leave. He was waiting.”
“I know, baby. I know, but we’re still not in the clear,” he says as he brushes the tears away. “Are you in any pain? Can you walk?”
I quickly flex every joint and nod. “I-I can walk,” I reply.
“Good, because we need to get out of here right fucking now.” He lets go of me and pushes toward the driver’s side window. “Okay, come on, baby,” he says, reaching back for me.
I follow, glass biting into my palms as I crawl across the roof of the cab. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I’m halfway through the window when the night splits open with a single, deafening crack.
A gunshot.
