Until we realized at the same time it was a life-sized cutout of Kenzie wearing her Miss Lake Sanguis sash.
“Geez. Kenzie gave me a heart attack,” I said, wheezing.
“I’ve died and left my body,” Jude said, swiping his brow. “We shouldnotbe in here.”
“Maybe we should check in the back?” I suggested. “The app says he’s here… or at least his phone is. And that’s where the light is coming from.”
“Or maybe we should get the hell out of here,” Jude offered instead.
I ignored the uneasiness in Jude’s voice and moved around the counter toward what seemed to be a back room.
The frozen custard machines were flicked off, the frozen dairy cases backlit with lowlight.
I felt the hairs on the back of neck stand up. My heart thumped in my chest. Was the killer here now?
Ready or not…
Was this a trap?
Then the overhead lights flicked on and I tensed.
“Found the light switch,” Jude declared.
My heart pounded. I was relieved and annoyed all at once.
A clatter drew my attention to the far back of the restaurant, where I saw the back door open—and slam shut.
“Stop!” I cried as I jumped over the checkout counter near the register and slid across the fake marble, hitting the ground on the other side at a run. “Stop!” I shouted again, running toward the back door, and whipping it open. I took one step out of the door and saw the red brake lights and the wooden back paneling of the white vintage Wagoneer.
Rage thumped in me.
This damn car.
I was so tired of it.
I was so tired of everything it represented: evil men doing what they wanted with no thought of consequences because they knew they’d never have to face them.
Well, not today.
This man, this time, wasn’t getting away with it.
I leapt onto the back bumper as my hands reached for the silver luggage rack on top. I pounded on the glass with the meaty part of my free hand just as the driver hit the gas and flew down the alley.
I heard a muffled shout from a terrified Jude, somewhere behind me, but I was too angry, too awash in adrenaline to care. I held on to the Wagoneer as it sped past the dumpsters and trash cans behind Gordon’s Frozen Custard.
The Wagoneer took a hard right onto Main Street, and my sneakered toe slipped off the chrome bumper. Shortly after, the other followed, and then I was dangling by both hands.
My palms screamed bloody murder as I held on to the luggage rack, fingers getting sweatier by the minute. The cold dawn air made the metal frigid and hard to grasp. And my sneakers could get no traction on the slick back bumper.
Okay, well, maybe this wasn’t working out as I’d planned.
Who am I kidding?
I had no plan.
The worst part about this was Oscar would tell meI told you so. Oscar would never let me forget either, and instead of sayingRemember swim lessons?orRemember that time you fell through the ice?, he’d sayRemember that time you jumped on a serial killer’s car?
That was, if I lived.
