And we’re not. Not yet. I need to talk to you. I’ll explain everything. But not here! Drive!”
Her head reeled. He was, she realized, pointing the gun at her.
“Don’t hurt me,” she breathed harshly.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m trying to save your life. Dammit, drive!”
She hit the gas. The car slammed forward, back on the road. They were driving with no lights. She didn’t know where the lights were. She fumbled madly for a switch, not finding it, following the road in the lights from roadside buildings, from memory.
Stay calm. He just wanted to talk, that had to be it. He wanted to talk. He was crazy, maybe, and he wanted to talk. She’d talk to him, then he’d let her go. Or kill her.
But she couldn’t let herself think that way. She had to think of ways to escape. She’d drive to the police station.
She was in control of the car, wasn’t she? Except for that gun thing.
“Turn there.”
She didn’t want to turn there. That was a back road. A country back road twisting out into the boonies. He wanted to explain. Fine, she’d love an explanation. But she wanted to talk somewhere safe, like the police station.
He grabbed the wheel when she didn’t slow down and they careened while she nearly had a heart attack, grappling for control, hitting the brake, barely missing a guardrail as they swerved over a bridge that spanned the river.
Dark woods whizzed past as she regained control of the car. There was no regaining control of her wildly pounding pulse.
She was getting out of this car!
She screeched to a stop, tried to grab open the door. His grip held her fast. She slapped at him with her other hand, not caring, let him shoot her. God, what would he do if she didn’t get out of this car?
He had her with both arms, both of them half falling out of the open door of the car, him on top of her. Her harsh breaths seared her lungs and his fiery eyes slammed her.
“I’m not going to drive anywhere else! I’m not going anywhere with you!” she spat out breathlessly. She was going to die anyway.
Was that fear or one of her nutso psychic flashes? She didn’t know anymore. She struggled again and must have caught him in a weak moment because she managed to kick at him sideways, scrambling to her feet as she pushed out the door.
She was off and running.
For about two seconds and he was on top of her and she was down, the asphalt biting into her knees again, tearing through her denim capris, then she slammed face down. She barely registered the physical pain.
“Just let me go. Please. Let me go home.” She was begging and she didn’t care. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Rape her. He was going to rape her. That was the deal about sex and his Impala! She’d just misread her impressions, probably because she was sex-starved.
Oh, God. This was no pleasure fantasy. Panic flooded her.
“Stop it!” he demanded roughly, holding her down, her arms pinned, his hard body making her attempts to kick backward at him useless. Exhausted, sobbing, she realized she was out of control, so far out of control.
She tried to get her breathing in order, tried to think. She had to use her brain. That was the only hope she had.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
He’d said that before. She didn’t believe him. She couldn’t see more than a half view of him from her position, cheek down on the hard road.
“Yes, you are!” she cried wildly. “You kidnapped me. You held a gun to me. You’re pinning me down. You forced me down this deserted road. You’re hurting me right now!”
“I’m trying to save your life! Listen to me!”
Out of control. She was still out of control.
She swallowed hard. Stop panicking! The order to herself was all but useless, but she faked it.
Calm.
Act calm. “Okay. I’m listening.”
Use your brain, she reminded herself. Find out what he wanted. She tried to breathe, in, out, calm. Not calm at all. And her brain…
Fried.
“What—What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Her voice came out ragged, a sob choking her throat. He wanted to save her life? She hadn’t needed any lifesaving until he’d shown up, him and whoever was after him.
There was no reason, no reason at all, anyone would be after her.
“There’s a little girl. Six years old. She’s missing.”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say, and she couldn’t think straight.
“I’m sorry. You should call the police. They have people who do that, find missing children.”
“They can’t help me. You can. You knew about that plane bombing, didn’t you?”
She went dead still. Stunned. Again.
He suddenly moved off her, twisted her around, pulling her up to face him. He held her shoulders with both hands. He wasn’t letting go of her and she was scared to try to run again. She shook like a leaf.
The night closed in dark around them, seeming to swirl with shadows. Thunder banged. She felt sick, afraid of dying, and he—
He looked fearsomely in control. Action hero on the set.
“No. No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. Maybe you know more than you think you know. Maybe someone else thinks so, too.”
Pain, palpable pain, seemed to radiate off him in waves, wrap around her, and she struggled to push it back from suffocating her.
She was in pain. She was in danger—from him. She didn’t know anything about any little girl.
She couldn’t just decide to know something. The things she knew, they hit her, like wild shots in the dark. Images, impressions, sometimes smells and sounds. Truths and lies. It was nothing she could control. Nothing she wanted to control.
And she was wrong, mostly wrong, she was sure of it, and even if she was right, it was too little, too late. And she couldn’t handle her own pain much less anyone else’s.
Maybe you know more than you think you know. Maybe someone else thinks so, too.
What was he saying? That the attack at the store had been someone after her? Because she knew something? And what did that have to do with a missing girl? The plane bombing had been nine months ago.
“I can’t help you. I’m sorry. Please let me go!”
“I
