His head snaps toward me, bewilderment clouding his already wrecked expression. “You’re helping me?”
I guess I am. Because if I were him—if I were bleeding out in the middle of a frozen highway with no one to call, no one to help me—I’d want someone to give a damn.
And maybe because I can’t shake the memory of my brother last year, sitting on his couch at three in the morning, his hands in his hair: “I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Annalise.”
I wonder if Chase has ever said something like that too.
If anyone was listening.
I inhale a frazzled breath and reply, “You said there’s no one else.”
The upbeat song echoes through the car, and I study the man behind thewheel. He’s fading. The hospital can’t be far, but I’m not sure how much longer he has before he succumbs to his injury, and I’m almost positive we’re heading in the opposite direction.
“You need a hospital, Chase.” I crane my neck, glancing out the back window and watching as the storm swallows the highway in a harrowing white vortex. “Turn around.”
“Can’t.”
I whip forward. “There’s no other choice. You’re losing too much blood.”
“My house…” He blows out a shaky breath. “It’s closer. Just another mile…”
My hand slaps against my forehead, fingers curling into my hairline as I watch his complexion turn a chalky shade of gray.
He’s not going to pass out. No way.
Peering down at his driver’s license again, I frown at the address: 112 Silverleaf Avenue. A sense of familiarity settles in.
Silverleaf.
I know that street. It’s just a few blocks from my parents’ old house. Tag and I used to cut through there all the time on our bikes, racing past the same handful of houses until the street curved toward the park.
Chase groans out a pained sound, his breathing shallow. “Think I might need you to…drive.”
My spine straightens with a jolt of unease as flashbacks assault me.
Shit, shit, shit.
“I-I can’t,” I whisper with regret, the traumatic memories tunneling through the fear. Truthfully, taking over the wheel sounds less hazardous than letting him bleed out in the driver’s seat, but that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do it. Not after what happened to—
No.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the past to stay buried.
The shattered glass. The flashing lights.
“Please,” he rasps.
“I…I literally can’t. I don’t have a driver’s license. I don’t know how to drive.”
A quick shake of his head, fused with disbelief. “Phone?”
“My brother has it.” Unlatching my seat belt, I scoot forward, inching between the seats. “Listen, I’ll try to help. Just stay focused. We’re not far. I’ll call for an ambulance when we get to safety.”
He attempts a nod, his eyelids fluttering. “No police. No hospital.”
Right. We’ll deal with that later.
“Chase. Chase Rhodes?”
