Chapter 6
My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird.
My eyes darted instantly to the rearview mirror. Two blocks back, emerging from the shadowed mouth of an alley near the neighborhood park, a pair of sharp, low-set halogen headlights pulled onto the asphalt. It was a dark Dodge Charger, cruising slowly, keeping fifty yards of distance between us.
“Who is this?” I demanded, keeping my voice level, fighting to prevent the panic from leaking into my tone. Leo was in the backseat, humming softly to his triceratops, oblivious to the predator tracking our bumper.
A low, dry chuckle crackled through the phone’s speaker. “You already know who I am, Lauren. Your husband made a promise he couldn't keep. And in my business, when a man defaults on collateral, we collect from the asset.”
“The car is registered solely in my name, Marcus,” I said, checking my mirrors as I signaled a left turn onto Route 9. “Ryan had no legal authority to sign over the title. Any lawyer in this state will tell you that agreement is toilet paper.”
“Lawyers don't collect debts on the docks, sweetheart,” Marcus replied, his tone smooth, almost conversational, which made it ten times more terrifying. “Ryan signed the paper. He took forty-two grand of my cash. And right now, you’re driving my property. Pull over at the Shell station on the corner of Maple, and we can settle this like civilized people.”
“And if I don't?”
“Then this conversation stops being civilized,” Marcus said, and the line went dead.
My knuckles turned bone-white against the leather steering wheel. Maple Street was less than a mile ahead. The Shell station was brightly lit, but at midnight on a Tuesday, the service bays were closed, and the single attendant was usually locked behind bulletproof glass inside the convenience store. If I pulled over there with a five-year-old in the backseat, I would be walking directly into a trap.
I stepped on the accelerator. The Volvo’s turbo kicked in with a muted whine, surging forward into the damp darkness.
In the rearview mirror, the Charger’s headlights accelerated too, closing the gap from fifty yards to thirty.
“Mommy, why are we driving so fast?” Leo asked from the backseat, his little voice laced with sudden unease.
“Just catching the green lights, baby,” I called back, forcing my voice to sound light and playful. “Hold onto Mr. Three-Horns, okay? We’re going to take a little shortcut.”
Instead of turning toward Maple Street, I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, cutting across two lanes of empty blacktop and diving down the steep access ramp toward the commercial district.
The salon where I worked—Luxe & Co.—was situated in an old brick textile mill three miles away, right beside the county police sub-station. But more importantly, the mill had a gated industrial loading dock with heavy hydraulic security gates that only opened with an authorized RFID key fob.
A fob that was currently dangling from my keychain.
The Charger roared behind me, its heavy engine snarling as it made the turn onto the access road. Marcus wasn't trying to hide anymore. He closed the distance until his front bumper was less than ten feet from my trunk, his high beams flooding my cabin in blinding white light.
“Mommy, it’s too bright!” Leo cried out, covering his eyes with his hands.
“Close your eyes, Leo! Put your head down between your knees, now!” I shouted, abandoning all pretense of a game.
May you like
The road curved sharply toward the old mill. Ahead, the heavy galvanized steel security gate loomed in the dark, chained and reinforced to protect the commercial tenants.
I reached up, ripped the plastic RFID tag off my key ring, and held it out the cracked driver’s side window as I braked hard, skidding onto the wet gravel approach.
