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The dropping temperature runs its icy fingers along the exposed skin on my legs. Goose bumps pile on top of goose bumps. God, why did I dress in shorts and not jeans for hiking? Why didn’t I bring more layers with me—like Troy would’ve done?
I wiggle out from under the steering wheel and clamber awkwardly to my feet, keeping my weight off my injured leg as much as possible. My stomach lurches, and it’s all I can do to keep the contents down.
I reach for the passenger door, but it’s too far away. Pain rips through my rib cage, almost knocking the breath from me. My ribs don’t feel broken, but they do hurt like hell. Everything is beginning to hurt like hell.
The ache in my ribs is familiar. I’ve experienced it on more than one occasion. X-rays weren’t on the menu then either.
I scan the cab once more but still can’t find my phone. No one knows I’m out here. No one knows I’ve been in an accident.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to kick the dashboard. But none of those things will help me.
I place my foot on the steering wheel and use it to try to reach the passenger door. I strain upward, biting my lip to distract from the pain wracking my body. “C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.” A wave of dizziness sweeps through me, forcing me to close my eyes for a second. I can do this. I’ve got to do this. It might be my only chance of survival. If my phone is outside the truck, I just need to locate it and call for help…as long as I have cell reception.
The front end of the truck points toward the edge of a forest of towering pines several yards away. I shift around and look out the rear window. As far as I can tell, it’s a fair distance between where the truck ended up and the road. The incline is steep, but I don’t have any other choice but to climb it if I can’t find my phone.
The passenger window is shattered, but sharp edges grip the frame like teeth of a great white shark. I would need to pull away the pieces of glass to go through it. But the door…the door thankfully isn’t locked. As far as I can tell, that’s my best chance for escape.
With the help of the steering wheel and the console between the two bucket seats, I get into position. I harness my waning strength and push the door open. Pain slams into my ribs, and a brittle cry falls from my lips.
The door stays precariously upright, aided by the direction of the wind, which is stronger now than it was when I left the hiking trail.
I push and pull myself out of the truck, my ribs and thigh protesting. A whimper slips between my gritted teeth.
I tumble to the ground with a thud and a groan, the air knocked from me. I scramble to my feet. My head spins; my stomach lurches again. I barely have time to double over before the contents splash on the incline of mud and rocks and pine needles.
I turn to the truck, and dread becomes a dead weight in my stomach. Troy’s truck is totaled. And it’s my fault. If I hadn’t gone hiking, if I hadn’t swerved to avoid the deer, his truck would be in one piece.
Oh, God. Oh, God, Oh, God. My body stiffens, bracing for the blow.
“Savannah.” My husband’s voice comes from the hallway. My body tenses. It’s the tone that always sends icy fear shooting through my veins, but I don’t know what I did to deserve it this time. Correction. I usually don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. His fits can be so unpredictable, so explosive.
“I-I’m in the kitchen.” The words sound as though they’re traveling through cement. My fingers grip the edge of the counter.
His tall, broad-shouldered frame appears in the doorway. “What the hell did you do to the car?”
“W-what do you mean?”
“There’s a scratch on the bumper.” His tone turns darker.
I shake my head, but I don’t know what exactly I’m shaking it for. To deny his allegation? To tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about? To plead for him not to touch me?
I register the sound of the slap before I notice the stinging in my cheek.
Tears prick my eyes, blur my vision. I clutch the roof of the truck, steadying myself, and shove away the memory.
Troy’s gonna be furious.
A tremor assaults my body. Somewhere in the fog of my thoughts, another voice tells me Troy isn’t my husband. He’s kind. He won’t hurt me like my husband did time after time.
The voice keeps telling me that, but my fear of what his reaction will be swells like a deadly tsunami. The truck. He needs it for his job. He needs it for everything he does.
I wasn’t responsible for the scratch on my car’s bumper my husband accused me of, but I am responsible for wrecking Troy’s truck.
My body still trembling, I limp around the area, searching the wet dirt for my phone and listening for sounds of an approaching vehicle. Another wave of dizziness rushes over me, and I sway on my feet. The wind doesn’t help my cause. It pushes me to the side, makes me unstable.
The dizziness passes after a moment, and I continue combing the ground. At this rate, by the time I find my phone, the battery will be dead.
I glance up the steep incline. My stomach sinks. The slope is steeper than I first realized. I study it, determine the best route to take, and stumble forward. The pain in my head and the dizziness intensify.
