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A dark SUV, like your Escape . . .
Elizabeth’s palms sweated over the wheel. She wanted to tell the detective that the police department was barking up the wrong tree and loudly proclaim her innocence. She hadn’t been anywhere near San Diego the day Court died. She’d been in Irvine and Newport Beach, showing property . . . well, most of the time, anyway. Could this detective really think Elizabeth was involved? Don’t even go there, she warned herself, but felt her blood pressure and worry escalate. With an effort at concentrating on the traffic, she forced out, “So, what does that mean?”
“It could be vehicular homicide,” the detective said slowly as if she were testing Elizabeth, waiting for a response.
Oh, Jesus. “Look, Detective, all I know is my husband’s dead,” Elizabeth snapped and then decided to end the conversation. “I’ve got to go. When you find out more, let me know. I’m sorry, I wish I could help you, but I can’t.” She clicked off and let out a long breath.
What the hell was the detective thinking? What was the real purpose of the call? Was Thronson fishing?
Lost in thought, she nearly missed the turn-off for her house and started to ease over to the correct lane, looking over her right shoulder.
In a blur, a dark convertible BMW slashed in front of her.
Instantly she slammed on her brakes.
Her heart froze.
Gasping, she braced herself for the inevitable crash, the crumpling of metal, the spinning into oncoming traffic.
Her Escape fishtailed, missing the BMW by mere inches. “Oh, God,” she said, her heart thundering wildly as she gained control of her vehicle.
The prick behind the Beemer’s wheel, glared at her through his rearview mirror. His face contorted in anger, he stabbed his middle finger into the air.
Immediately Elizabeth’s finger shot up in response. The jerk thought it was her fault? His brake lights flashed and she was forced to slow at the next light. Still silently fuming, she pulled to within a hairbreadth behind him, nearly covering up his license plate, which read GOODGUY.
“Good guy my ass,” Elizabeth muttered, still seething.
Holding her gaze in the mirror, he started making a disgusting pumping gesture with his hand down by his lap.
Yuck! Seriously? Seeing red, anger pumping through her bloodstream, she mouthed asshole.
The light turned.
He hit the accelerator.
She tromped on the gas.
Pissed beyond all reason, she drove like a maniac, right on his tail.
He zipped in and out of lanes and she followed recklessly behind the bastard.
Are you nuts, Elizabeth? What the hell are you doing? For God’s sake let it go! He’s just a jerk, one of a million behind the wheel. Stop this! You’re a mother, for crying out loud!
In a blink, her brain kicked in and she came to her senses. “No,” she whispered, easing off the gas, deccel-erating and sliding into the slower lane. Her heart was still pounding a crazy tattoo, but her fury was spent and she was horrified by what she’d done, how an idiot had goaded her into such erratic, uncharacteristic behavior. She could have hurt someone, or killed them, or herself.
She trembled inside.
As she found a spot to turn around, she could hear the rushing in her ears, the pounding of her heart, the stutter of her own breaths. What’s wrong with you? her mind screamed.
He reminded you of Court, didn’t he? That’s what this was all about. Well, it’s crazy. Elizabeth, pull yourself together! You’re Chloe’s only parent now. You can’t afford to fall apart.
Shaking inside, trying to understand the instant, unlikely rush of pure fury that had overtaken her, she pulled over to the side of the road. As cars streamed by, she took in deep, calming breaths. Finally, when she felt in control again, she flipped on her blinker and driving with extra care, eased into traffic again and found a safe spot to turn around as she’d long before passed the turn-off to her house.
Still trembling, she drove the rest of the way home extra carefully and pulled into her garage. She’d never done anything like that. Ever.
She cut the engine and hit the button so that the garage door closed, slowly blocking out the daylight. As the engine cooled, ticking and darkness surrounding her, she rested her head on the steering wheel. Never had she experienced that white-hot level of road rage. Never had she chased down an idiot who had cut her off.
What was the report on Court’s accident? Several witnesses reported a dark SUV weaving in and out of traffic about the same time Court’s BMW was doing the same thing. . . .
