Probably would have had to bankroll my own high tea in England and dune bashing in Abu Dhabi anyway.
Brake lights illuminate in front of me, indicating the murder mobile is slowing its pace, so I slow as well, craning my neck to get a look at what’s ahead, though not seeing anything but trees.
The van stops, then the driver climbs out.
He’s a middle-aged man with a prominent bald spot and watery eyes. He doesn’t look threatening or give off murder-man vibes. But anyone can be a serial killer, right?
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch. My brain is telling me that keeping my hands at ten and two is the surest way to keep myself from becoming a murder victim.
Come on, Evan. Get a grip.
The driver stops at my car door, then raps his knuckle on the window.
Panic flares inside me. I’m only twenty-six. I want to do so much more with my life. I have a live stream scheduled for tonight and at least eight unfulfilled orders from my online shop waiting to be processed?—
“Hey.”
I startle, jolting hard enough to smack my head on the car roof.
Ouch.
Wincing, I turn to the man, studying him through the window.
The driver makes a cranking motion with his fist.
At least he’s practical. It’ll be less messy if I roll down the window. That way he won’t have to break the glass to kick things off.
I deeply regret not packing and shipping the shop orders this morning so I could clear my queue. If I get murdered today, I’ll definitely lose my Speedy Shipper badge for the month.
Shaking his head, the man sighs. Then, with his hands cupping his mouth, he hollers, “Do you know the code?”
Code? I frown at him.
Oh. Wait.
Luca did send a string of four numbers last night. I figured it was the storage unit number or the start of the address he forgot to send. I suppose it could be a code.
“Hang on,” I mutter, holding up one finger.
I scoop up my phone from the passenger seat, open the text thread from Luca, and scroll through our most recent messages.
The scrolling isn’t necessary, I guess. The code is in the last text he sent me. But I can’t help but scroll a little higher, scanning all the heartfelt messages and sweet notes I’ve sent, then glowering at the one-word responses and thumbs-up emojis he’s sent back in the last few weeks.
It’s humiliating. Luca was never really invested in our relationship, while I was on a personal mission to prove to everyone, including myself, how perfect we were together.
Finally, I force myself to return to the latest messages, then lower my window an inch or two so I can speak to the van driver.
I peek up, squinting against the bright Texas sun. Don’t want my potential murderer to think I’m rude. “It’s 9902.”
With a nod and two thumbs up, he jogs back to the van. Rather than hop in, he goes beyond the vehicle and disappears out of sight.
A minute passes. Then another.
All the while, I’m gnawing on my bottom lip so hard it might bruise.
Finally, he returns, climbs into the driver’s seat, and pulls forward.
As the van rolls through the ornate iron gates, I blink, then snatch my phone from the seat. With nerves prickling every inch of my skin, I swipe back to the map with the address Luca provided.
