“Right now?”
Her confusion incites me. I finally wrench myself free and scramble out of the car, nearly strangling myself with the seat belt. I don’t need to fear Ramirez after all—seems like automobile safety will be the thing that kills me.
“Yes, right now.” Should I be running from my car? Screaming forhelp? Calling 911 instead of explaining to Athena that there’s a freaking man in my car?
“What’s he doing?”
My car was just hijacked, I’m on the verge of puking my guts out or having a heart attack, and she wants to know what the man’sdoing?
“Cybil, what is he doing?”
Heart hammering, I spin around and yank open the back door, fully prepared to run for my life.
But the man doesn’t lunge at me with a knife or point a gun at me. His slumped-over form doesn’t move at all. I stare at him, my brain short-circuiting. “Uh...” I swallow. “He’s not doing anything.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
I retrieve my phone from where it slipped between the seats and change it from my car speaker to my phone speaker. “He’s not doing anything. He’s not moving.”
“He’s unconscious?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he breathing?”
My heart stalls as I stare at the unmoving man. “He’s dead?”
“I don’t know, is he?”
“Athena!” I hiss. “What do I do?”
“Stay calm.”
“Are you serious?”
“Listen, I’m assuming you don’t normally keep spare bodies in your car to save on tolls, right? So let’s just take this one step at a time. I need you to check for a pulse.”
“Do I have to?”
“Dealing with a drunk man is different than dealing with a dead man.”
“Fine.” I lean into the car and gingerly reach toward his wrist. His skin is hot against my fingers, but relief rushes through me when I feel proof. “He’s alive.”
“Good. Now describe him.”
“Describe him?”
“What’s he wearing?” Athena’s voice is unshakable like she’s walked a person through this type of scenario before, and for some reason that does not make me feel better. “Does he look like a homeless guy who took advantage of your unlocked door or—”
“No. He’s wearing a suit. Nice shoes. Wait...” My hands are still shaking, but I lean into the car again and look at his face. “I think I recognize him. Yeah, he was at the restaurant. I thought he was drunk—he staggered outside right before I left.” My mind is racing, piecing things together. “Oh no. I told him to get to his car, but he must’ve gotten into my car by mistake.”
Athena snorted. “That excuse won’t hold up in court.”
I jump back. “What?”
“Check his pockets for ID.”
I make a face. “Um, no.”
