I take a few more steps towards the dog, cheered that he hasn’t run away yet. I keep crooning the same things over and over, telling him—or her—how good they are and all the nice things they’ll get if they come with me.
I’m less than ten feet from the dog when headlights illuminate the road from behind me.
At the crunch of tires on snow, the dog skitters back.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You’re okay.”
A car door slams shut.
My heart skips a beat.
Not a serial killer. It can’t be.
“What are you doing?” someone shouts. No, notsomeone. A man with a deep, rumbling voice.
A serial killer’s voice?
No. Don’t be ridiculous.
Slamming the metaphorical door shut on the idea, I spin around to face him, nearly losing my balance before catching myself. “I’m trying to get the dog,” I shout back. “And you’re not helping!”
The man—a very tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a dark coat that’s quickly turning white from the snow—hurries towards me. “Get back in your car,”he replies. His tone is firm with authority. “Before you end up getting hurt out here.”
“The dog,” I persist. Flicking a glance over my shoulder, I locate the dog, still in the middle of the road, but further away than before. “He’s in trouble. Lost. He needs help.”
The man closes the distance between us in several long strides. His features are like stone. Snowflakes dust the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. His eyes are dark and intense as he looks at me. “Get back in your car,” he repeats. “This isn’t safe. You’re going to end up hit by a damn car.”
Stubborn determination flares hot. “So will the dog,” I fire back. “I’m not leaving him alone out here. And I might have gotten him already if you weren’t distracting me.”
As he glares at me, I wonder if he reallymightbe a serial killer. A serial killer I just provoked by snapping at him.
Then a moment later, he chuckles. It’s a dry, almost scratchy laugh, like he hasn’t made the sound in years. “Fair point,” he concedes.
I’m ready to argue, so his acquiescence throws me off. “What?”
“If you’re insistent on getting the damn dog, I’ll help you. Since I’m already covered in snow.”
“You didn’t have to get out of your car,” I point out.
“I thought someone was hurt,” he shoots back. “While I might not havewantedto stop, I’m not about to drive past the scene of an accident, either.”
“Would a serial killer stop to help?” I muse. “Or would he take it as an opportunity?”
He frowns at me. “Are you calling me a serial killer?”
My face flames so hot, I’m surprised all the snow doesn’t melt. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I was just driving and thinking about serial killers and whether they would be out in a storm like this or if they’d be at home, plotting by the fire?—”
I clamp my mouth shut. Then I scan the road, searching for a convenient hole to throw myself into.
His mouth twitches. “Do you think about serial killers often?”
“Only when I’m driving on a deserted road in the middle of a snowstorm.”
Or sleeping alone in my car in the middle of a forest. But I’m not mentioning that part.
“Well,” he says after a brief pause. “I’m not a serial killer. Although I suppose serial killers would say that, wouldn’t they?”
“Not unless they wanted to mess with their victim,” I reply. “If they wanted to toy with them. Let them know what’s coming.”
