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1
This is going to leave a bruise.
Katelyn Loveland stomped on the brakes of her Honda Civic. Upon impact her air bag would deploy, collide with her face, and she’d look like a monster when she met her boyfriend’s family.
She jerked the wheel to the left. “No, no, no!” The squeal of tires merged with her shriek.
She missed the deer by inches.
Thank You, Jesus!
Her tires slipped off the shoulder. She turned the wheel but overcorrected. Her breath caught on an exhale.
Then she was spinning, spinning. The world swirled: green, brown, blue. Dread sank in bone-deep. Katie braced for certain impact with a guardrail, a tree, the mountain. Braced for the air bag, the pain, the aforementioned bruising.
Instead branches clawed the car like a bear, scratching, scraping. The car jilted forward. A scream.
Then a jarring halt.
She looked up, breaths ragged. Unpeeled her fingers from the wheel. Leaned back in her seat, head spinning. Throbbing. She touched her temple, and her fingertips came away red and sticky. She must’ve hit the steering wheel. Her air bag hadn’t deployed after all.
Okay. I’m okay.
She drew in a full breath and assessed. The engine hissed. Smoke curled heavenward. The engine wasn’t running. She reached trembling fingers for the key and turned it.
Nothing.
So she wouldn’t pull up to the house in a wrecked car—she touched her forehead again—with a head injury. But she would be bruisedandlate. So much for a good first impression. She needed to call her boyfriend; he’d have to come get her.
Her phone was in her purse—which was where? There, on the passenger-side floor, contents scattered. She unbuckled her seat belt and reached for the phone.
The car shifted farther forward.
She froze, heart stuttering.Forget the phone.What was happening? Why was the car unbalanced? Dare she move?
Slowly, not so much as breathing, she straightened in her seat. Dear God, what was going on?
She peered through the front windshield. The murky blue of the late-afternoon sky seemed to go on forever. She dared to lean forward an inch, two, breath held, eyes seeking the ground in front of her.
But it wasn’t there.
***
Cooper Robinson leaned into the curve, the motor of his Triumph Street Twin humming beneath him. The hot August windripped past, the smell of pine permeated the air. Riding brought him a sense of calm and ease, a feeling of freedom. The sound of the motor and vibration of the bike were like oxygen to his soul. Riding was his therapy. His thoughts were full of family today, though, and that didn’t exactly jive with the whole calm and ease vibe he sought.
His brother, Gavin, in particular weighed heavily on his mind, as he had often since Gavin’s divorce last year. Earlier than that really—since the death of Gavin’s young son. The two tragic events were like links in a chain, one leading right to the next.
When Gavin had moved home the Robinsons circled the wagons to comfort and support him. Not that it did much good. He’d only lately begun to come around—but not because of his family’s efforts.
Cooper accelerated through another turn, trying to regain the calm and ease thing. Normally nothing cleared his mind like a ride through the mountains surrounding Riverbend Gap, a town tucked deeply into the Appalachian Mountains.
Coming out of the turn, he straightened the bike, his gaze locking on skid marks on the road just ahead. Saw them all the time on these winding roads—tourists misjudged the hairpin turns despite the traffic signs.
But these skid marks were on a straightaway, and they were new; no accidents had been reported here. Probably a deer or other wildlife, judging by the deceleration marks on the pavement. Despite the lack of a carcass, he slowed his bike and kept his eyes peeled for the car.
Something had disturbed the gravel on the shoulder. Intermittent skid marks marred the pavement just beyond. Someone had lost control.
And there, just ahead to the left—flattened brush about the width of a car.
