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February 7th
4:12 P.M.
Clara’s heart was beating so hard and fast; it felt like a hammer against her ribs.
In the rearview mirror, she could see red and blue lights swirling. Whirling sirens filled the air. They were close—too close. They were going to catch her.
She cast a quick glance at the gas gauge; it was nearing empty. She couldn’t keep going much longer.
She should stop.
Pull over.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. The car sped up, as did the police car following her. So did the police car behind that. And the one behind that. And the many other police cars that were in the long black and white snake tailing her.
She wanted to stop, tell them what had happened, but she was too scared. What if they didn’t understand? What if they blamed her? What if they dragged her off to jail?
This was all her fault. What was wrong with her? She was usually so careful; she wasalwaysso careful. Today, however, for some stupid reason she had been distracted. If only she’d been paying attention, then this wouldn’t have happened.
Now she was stuck.
She had no choice but to just keep going for as long as she could and hope for the best. Another glance at the gas gauge showed the red line was hovering on empty. She hadmaybeanother couple of minutes before it was all over.
Clara didn’t bother to try and hold back tears as they began to trickle down her cheeks. She was so afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. She felt trapped. Trapped and helpless. She wanted a way out, but at that moment it didn’t seem like one was going to present itself.
Again she sped the car up; she was beyond glad she had let her sister pressure her to take a defensive driving course a couple of years ago. As she drove, she scanned the area, looking for someplace to hide. Of course, that was ridiculous. There had to be at least eight or nine police cars chasing her. There was nowhere to hide.
Turning onto a freeway, perhaps she could make one quick burst for freedom and outrun the cops before her car ran out of gas.
She’d made it only a half mile or so when the car suddenly slowed and then rolled to a stop.
Red and blue spun around her. Cars were everywhere. Sirens were wailing. Voices were screaming at her, but she couldn’t make out their words.
Clara felt weird.
Floaty.
The air in the car was stifling.
She needed some fresh air.
Why did she feel so dazed?
On wobbly legs, she climbed from the car.
* * * * *
4:21 P.M.
Something was wrong.
Detective Jonathon Dawson knew it as soon as the woman climbed from the car.
At first, he thought drugs; she was swaying, and her eyes looked glazed. But then he caught sight of the blood on her neck, and he immediately thought victim. If this woman had been assaulted, she might be in shock, which could explain why she had just spent the last ninety minutes driving through the city seemingly oblivious to the dozen police cars tailing her.
Catching his partner’s eye, he pointed at his neck and Allina nodded that she too had noticed the woman’s injury. While his partner gestured to the other cops surrounding the woman and her car to keep back, Jonathon lowered his gun and took a tentative step forward.
