I followed Brady’s taillights out of the parking lot and onto Main Street.
He’d been fine over text this morning. Chatty and sweet. Funny and teasing. What could have changed between then and now?
Brady approached the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and Sixth. My headlights shone in his rearview mirror, and I met his gaze briefly before he checked the empty intersection and pulled ahead slowly.
What was I going to say when he ended things? That was obviously where this was headed. Asking to talk was never a good sign. How was I going to?—?
As I sat idling at the stop sign, an oncoming engine revved sharply from my left. I watched in horror as a late-model truck sped into the intersection and slammed into the side of Brady’s truck. Metal crushed and scraped as the collision pushed Brady’s vehicle up onto the sidewalk and pinned it against the telephone pole.
I was out of my Jeep with my phone in my hand before the incoming truck had fully rocked to a stop.
“Brady!” I shouted, running to circle the mass of metal.
My thumb fumbled to type 9-1-1 as I caught sight of Brady’s brown hair resting on the driver’s-side window.
“Brady,” I called again, my voice distant over the sound of blood and panic coursing through my system.
The flat front end of the older truck was trapping Brady. His vehicle was crumpled around the intruding metal, all sharp angles.
I climbed on the hood of the green truck with the white stripe along the side and tapped on Brady’s window. Vaguely, I was aware of sounds coming from the phone in my hand.
“Brady,” I repeated. “Can you hear me?”
He was starting to rouse. I caught a grimace of pain on his profile before seeing a slash of bright red along his hairline.
I hit the speakerphone button on my cell and shouted that there’d been an accident on Main and Sixth and to send an ambulance. Then I ignored the operator’s questions and shoved my phone in my pocket, trying to get Brady to meet my gaze.
His head kept lolling, and he couldn’t seem to focus on where my voice was coming from.
Hurriedly, I climbed down off the hood of the truck that had T-boned him and ran to the passenger side of Brady’s vehicle. But the hinge of the door was pressed against the telephone pole. I could pull on the handle, but couldn’t get enough leverage or room to tug it open.
Instead, I stood up on the running boards and peered inside. I could see him better from this angle, and his gaze finally found mine through the glass. He tried straightening in his seat, but he was moving slowly, gingerly.
“Just stay still. The paramedics will be here in a minute.” I scrubbed a tear off my chin and tried to smile. “They’ll get you out.”
Brady nodded and then winced. His head drooped back against his headrest, and I called out again. He blinked back into awareness, but he was sluggish and dazed.
I kept talking, telling him he’d be fine and not to worry, but I wasn’t sure if he heard me through whatever head injury he’d sustained. I furiously swiped another tear off my cheek.
The sirens were getting louder now, but no sense of relief came.
I heard the squeak and strain of an old door opening.
Until that moment, I hadn’t given a shit about the other driver. I’d recognized that truck the moment it had crashed through the intersection. But now I was stepping off the running boards and rounding the front of Brady’s ruined truck.
Glassy-eyed and red-faced, Buck Adams was staggering off the bench seat and out onto the street. The smell of cheap alcohol accompanied the middle-aged man, and suddenly, all my useless fear from the last five minutes had a target.
“What the fuck are you doing, Buck? Look at what you did,” I shouted over the sound of approaching sirens, furious and untethered—a snarling, angry dog freed from its chain.
The man caught sight of me and reeled back, intent on escaping back into his truck. He got the door closed, but his window was half down. I climbed up and reached through, desperate to keep him from leaving. I grappled and fumbled for the ignition, trying to reach the keys so I could toss them across the fucking street. But Buck beat me there and turned the truck over. It took a moment to catch as I clawed at his arms and yanked on the wheel.
Suddenly, I was weightless, kicking and shouting as an arm banded around my waist and pulled me backward.
“Jesus, Mac,” the voice attached to the arm grunted. “Your elbow got me below my vest.”
Hair whipped across my face as I watched another uniformed deputy drag Buck out of his vehicle.
The person holding me—Jamie Matthews, I could recognize him now—set me down on my feet. “You good?”
