Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Then came the crunch of gravel beneath hurried footsteps, the groan of a car door swinging open, the press of a seat against my back, and finally, the solid thunk as the door closed behind me.
Darkness swallowed me again after that, and when I came to properly, my head throbbed like a marching band had set up camp behind my eyes. Every inch of my body ached like I’d been dropped down a flight of stairs. Twice. My mouth was dry, my limbs were stiff, and I was covered in what I was pretty sure was dirt—or at least ninety percent dirt and ten percent regret.
I groaned and turned my head.
Beside me, hunched over the steering wheel, was the old woman from the site. Her white hair had come partially undone from the bun, and her face was pressed so close to the windshield I thought she might fog it up with her breath. She was perched on what looked like a worn-out phone book, her bony knees tucked awkwardly under the steering wheel. She was squinting so hard through the thickest pair of glasses I’d ever seen that I wasn’t entirely sure her eyes were even open.
Every few seconds, she slammed her hand against the horn, apparently for no other reason than to announce her presence to the world like a foghorn.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she greeted without taking her eyes off the road—or what I hoped was the road. “You’re a little dirty, sorry about that. I kept falling while trying to get you out of there. I’m not as strong as I used to be.”
I blinked slowly. “What…what’s happening right now?”
“If your head hurts, there’s some Tylenol in the glove box,” she added, adjusting her glasses slightly. “Don’t take more than two unless you want to sleep for a week. I've got the kind with the nighttime stuff in it. My arthritis doesn’t care what time it is.”
My hand fumbled for the latch and opened the glove compartment. Sure enough, a battered bottle of Tylenol rolled out, along with a travel-sized sewing kit, a granola bar that had probably expired during the Obama administration, and a packet of tissues covered in lint.
I popped the cap and dry-swallowed two pills while my brain tried to stitch reality back together.
“You’re helping me?” I asked slowly, still trying to catch up.
“Yes, dear. We needed to get out before Colin got back from his meeting.” The car weaved across the center line as if she were guiding a canoe, not a vehicle. “I figured we could find a phone somewhere and call your young man. You do have one, don’t you? A boyfriend?”
I blinked at her. “You mean Webb?”
“If that’s his name,” she shrugged, squinting even harder. “Do you know his number?”
That made me laugh or maybe wheeze. I wasn’t sure what came out.
“Does anyone know anyone’s number anymore? That’s what cell phones are for.”
“I don’t use those stupid things,” she snapped, tapping the steering wheel for emphasis. “I’ve got all the numbers I need in here.” She pointed at her temple proudly.
“Well, the only number I have up there is 911,” I muttered. “So, I think we’re screwed.”
She snorted. “We haven’t even been properly introduced, have we? I’m Gladys, and I really want to apologize about all of this.”
“Yeah.” I leaned back into the headrest. “Me too.”
I tried to take stock of everything. My body still felt like it had been run over by a freight train, and my thoughts kept slipping around in circles, but the facts remained: I wasn’t in that room anymore. I wasn’t tied up. I wasn’t in Maddox’s control.
Instead, I was in a car being driven by a woman who had probably once survived prohibition and now couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of her.
Was I still unconscious? Was this the plot of a horror movie that I was dreaming about? These felt like a valid questions.
Just then, Gladys swerved sharply to avoid a mailbox—or maybe she was aiming for it—and nearly side-swiped a pickup truck. The driver honked and flipped us off as we jolted into the other lane.
“Oh, hush,” she hissed at him, slapping her horn in retaliation. “People are so rude these days.”
I grabbed the door handle like it might anchor me to life.
So, as it turned out, I wasn’t going to be murdered by a cartel-backed tech mogul after all. No dramatic shootout, no sinister monologue, no international scandal splashed across the headlines. Instead, I was apparently destined to die in a tragic—yet somehow whimsically absurd—automobile accident on the side of a forgotten Florida backroad.
And my co-pilot in this impending disaster? A woman who believed GPS was a government conspiracy and treated traffic signs like polite suggestions she was free to ignore.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“I think we’re being followed,” Gladys said casually as if she were commenting on the weather. She squinted into the rearview mirror, then glanced sideways at me. “It’s probably that awful boy, Clayton Barris. I told Colin I didn’t like him hanging around that one. He's a bad influence.”