The man grabs my wrist and yanks me to him, towing me back into his car.
Oh.
My heart stammers, breath wedged in my throat as I try to set myself free. But the stalker is a lot stronger than he looks and manages to get me into his car. I’m thrown into the back, the door locking before I even have time to pick myself up and salvage an escape.
The man shuts the door and starts up the engine, and before I know it, we’re leaving Maple Crossing.
“What the actual fuck?” I whisper to myself, still trying to work out where the hell I’m being Ubered to. I squint through the window and see trees pass by in a blur. So much of a blur that I can’t even see the gaps between them. I blink, straighten my vision. Turns out the stalker just likes to drive dangerously fast.
I clutch the headrest in front of me. The red leather seats are an eyesore. So is the man who’s driving this thing. I steal a quick glance at him in the rearview mirror as he concentrates on the road, and feel the hint of a smile upturn my lip. That is one very black eye, so much that you can’t see where the eyelid ends and the white of his eye begins.
I keep a beady eye on the stalker, smug that both of mine are intact, and take a deep breath. I’ve got this. The man has one impaired eye and a bad record of criminal offenses, probably.
I have a phone, and zero criminal offenses, as of yet.
I keep myself calm and between the seats, take out my phone. The guy is traveling at speed, so all of his focus is on the road, trying not to crash as we skirt around forest bends. My body jerks with the motion, but I keep a tight grip on the device and hit voice record.
Let the fun commence.
“How come you were sniffing around my house?”
The man catches my eye through the rearview mirror. “To see if Philip had moved locations.” His eye, the one he’s still able to use, narrows in scrutiny. “Why are you asking?”
I make sure to keep my phone hidden between the seats as I say, “Because you broke into my house the day before it burned down.”
James Taylor didn’t wanna hear any of it, after he got my confession. He clearly has no interest in listening to me, but he might listen to the burglar if I get enough audio proof.
“Yes, I was there the day before the fire,” he says. “I was searching for your father to see if he was there, and then had a quick rummage through some documents in the kitchen to see if I could find an address.” He glimpses me through the mirror again. “Something spilled. Nail polish remover, I think.” That single eye narrows again. “Is that what you were hoping for? A confession so then you’re off the hook?” Laughter erupts from his mouth, the screeching kind that’s gonna explode my eardrums if he keeps going. “The apple does not fall very far from the tree with you and your father. The pair of you are always looking for someone to blame.” Another harsh turn has me swinging to the other side of the car and back. “You don’t think I can see what you’re doing in myowncar?”
He stomps on the brake and I go flying into the seat. My life flashes in front of me, and I have no other option but to release the phone, saving myself from a deadly hit. I grip the headrest, grateful that my face is still intact.
“Thanks for the whiplash.”
“Not a problem.” The stalker kills the engine and races around to grab my phone from the footwell as I’m recovering.
I’m a second to late.
Fuck.
I try to snatch it back, but he’s already deleting the voice note and circling back around the vehicle to continue the drive.
But before he does that, he takes a minute to go through my phone. I’m not bothered about him seeing the flirtatious text messages with Caleb as much as I am about himrecoveringmy calls and voicemails.
“I hope you’re not putting a virus on my phone,” I spit, folding my arms over my chest as he plugs an ugly contraption into my phone. “Those things cost a fortune. Not like I expect you to know, seeing as you probably get all of your shit from the black market.”
Then I zip my lips before I further aggravate the man in the middle of nowhere, with no phone.
The stalker ignores my comment and keeps the power-bank-looking thing plugged into the charging port.
He does exactly as I feared he would—he retrieves a call.
The one I had with my father.
“I’m staying at West Hill Motel. I’ll tell you everything in person. It’s risky over the phone.”
Shit.
The stalker shoves my phone into his pocket and restarts the car, then does a sharp U-turn at the next intersection. According tothe built-in GPS on the car, I have to endure another ten minutes of reckless driving before we make it to the motel.
