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Where would he take her? What would he do to her? Was Paul some made-up persona that Gerald would become after they arrived at their destination? Or was there really a Paul? Would there be two of them? Two men—and her?
Melinda’s elbows dug into her thighs, fingers caging her face and fingernails biting her scalp. Her throat ached. Her head ached. Her pride ached.
Outside, wind pelted the car with snow. She looked at her phone accusingly. Why the hell had she forgotten her charger at the hotel? She could have charged her phone on the way. Somewhere. Anywhere.
If her dumb phone had had any juice left, she’d be in a police car right now giving them a play-by-play as another car took her kidnapper straight to hell. Or jail. Jail, hell, whatever— hopefully they’re the same thing for him.
If her phone hadn’t died she could have at least texted someone. Made herself anything other than completely helpless. Melinda pushed back her hair and stared out the window with raw eyes. She laughed, a hollow sound that rang in her own ears. Oh yeah? Who could she have texted? Her editor? Remy wouldn’t have known what to do—the woman was a mouse. And certainly not her useless brother, Max. This was too inconceivable. He would have laughed. “Figure it out, Sen,” he’d say. What he always said when she needed him. Then he’d hang up, crack a beer, and watch a movie.
Melinda shuddered and hiccuped, and then her tears ceased like a dried-up spring. She was surprised tears had come at all. She worked hard to keep the drama of life, and its emotions, at bay. The last time she’d cried was at her maternal grandmother’s funeral, in her senior year of college.
Who would worry that she hadn’t checked in after arriving home? No one, that’s who. There was absolutely no one. And she had liked it that way, for so long. No one to shame her for wearing the wrong thing, the way friends did. No one to tell her what to do, what to think, the way boyfriends did. No one to abandon her, the way family did. She was independent. She was free.
A fat lot of good that freedom was doing her now.
Melinda twisted in her seat. Her readers thought she was so brave, so adventurous. She could handle anything life threw at her. Even when she failed, she laughed it off and kept trying—that’s what made her relatable! Authentic! Too bad she was a total fraud who controlled everything, so nothing and no one could control her. And what she couldn’t control, she slept through, a somnambulist in daredevil’s clothing. Well, this was one hell of a wake-up, wasn’t it?
They’d been driving for so long. They were well into the foothills now. She recognized I-70, Genesee, Idaho Springs, Loveland Ski Area. Oh God, we’re going through the tunnel. The road noise intensified and was simultaneously muffled. Where the hell was he taking her? Melinda’s throat clenched and she struggled to swallow. The car chugged along and emerged at the top of the ten-mile slope above Dillon and Silverthorne. And then it slid sideways.
~
I-70 twisted and turned through the foothills to higher and higher slopes. Shoulders hiked to his ears, Grant counted the minutes and gripped the wheel. Swirling snowfall blurred the high-mast lighting at the highway’s edge and dampened their yellow beams to an ominous amber fog. Trees that Grant knew lined the highway morphed into a legion of murky black shadows witnessing his crime.
Melisa had stopped yelling a while ago, before the snow had gotten bad and the car had lost traction. Whether she was dozing or relishing her performance, Grant didn’t care to speculate. Either way, it was about time she shut up and let him drive. He’d lowered the volume of the music earlier so she could call Paul if she wanted, and now it was his turn. One hand on the wheel, Grant snagged his phone from the passenger seat and pressed its command button, enunciating “Call Paul DiMario” at the robotic voice’s prompt. Then he cursed. No cell service. Of course.
By the time they made it through the Eisenhower tunnel, the Maybach was cruising at an exhilarating five miles an hour. The car’s wipers slapped frenetically at the windshield in a vain attempt to mitigate the dumping snow. Despite the car’s chunky tires, they were slipping all over the ten-mile, two thousand-foot descent between Loveland Ski Area and Silverthorne. Grant’s shoulders burned with strain.
A hundred bucks said they were shutting down the tunnel at that very moment. The blizzard had added over an hour to their journey, and Grant noted the time as he took the exit for Silverthorne. 9:24 p.m. How the hell was he going to get home? The last place he wanted to be was ringside at Paul and Melisa’s celebration. Grant turned right, veered left, passed avenues, drives, and circles, and snaked closer to Paul’s cabin.
“You’d better be here, Moneybags,” Grant growled as, at last, he guided the car from the paved public lane to Paul’s roughshod road.
With one last turn, the sedan’s tires met Paul’s gravel driveway and Grant’s neck flushed with relief. He urged the vehicle forward and parked on the detached garage’s concrete pad where he rolled his shoulders and flexed his cramped fingers. The relief was short-lived, however, as Paul’s Land Cruiser was conspicuously absent.
“Shit.” What now?
His phone connected to Paul’s Wi-Fi, and the phone service that had eluded him for the last hour and a half returned in a flurry of text messages. Grant’s eyebrows lifted. The power was still on. That meant he could crank up the heat when they got inside. Finally, something would go right tonight.
Messages chimed one after the next and Paul’s name flashed repeatedly across his phone’s screen.
Easy there, fella.He opened Paul’s chat stream and the blood drained from his face.
How’s it going? All go according to plan? You must be out of range so I’ll see you in a bit. Was Mel surprised or did she guess?
Got held up, leaving now.
Oh shit.
You got the wrong chick.
Grant where the fuck are you? Mel just got here with me. She took a real Kaar home. I’m going to be sick. Who’s in that car?
Damnit, where are you?
This is a train wreck. They closed the tunnel and Mel and I are stuck at a hotel in Georgetown. We’re going to jail. If you make it to my place, call me.
Grant waited for the buzzing in his ears to stop. He waited for the nausea to abate. Neither happened.
Grant dropped his phone on the passenger seat. He pushed open the door and dragged himself to his feet without feeling the tornado of snow that slammed into him. He reached for the door handle to face Melinda—because that was her name, apparently—and couldn’t think of a thing he’d dreaded more in his life.
