It didn’t click, not for a long moment, that I knew the driver. All I could focus on was the panic building in my system as my hand went to the door, and found that the child locks were on, and I couldn’t escape. And that I was likely trapped in a moving car with my stalker and would-be murderer.
“Let me out of this car,” I shrieked, slapping my hand on the window as if anyone could hear me, let alone see me with the dark tint on the windows. “You don’t have to do this!” I added, my heart hammering in my chest as a cold sweat broke out across my whole body.
“No, Miranda, I don’t,” a voice said. “But I want to.”
I was so consumed with my terror that I didn’t realize immediately that I recognized that voice, that I’d heard it many times over the past few years.
When it finally did click, though, my gaze shot to the rearview mirror, where I found his eyes looking back at me, crinkled at the edges like he was smiling, like he was taking pleasure in my fear.
“Ritchie.” His name hissed out of me as my mind raced with this new information.
Ritchie?
In what world could it be my assistant and best friend’s boyfriend who wanted me dead?
I mean, yes, I had fired him. But that was a while ago. Had he been festering this whole time? Over a small advertising job? When Cam was making the kind of money he was making, the kind of money that meant that Ritchie didn’t even need to work anymore. And, as a verified slacker, that should have been exactly what he wanted. To sit around and do nothing, but enjoy the fruits of someone else’s labor.
I guess I’d underestimated him and his anger about the loss of the job.
In my defense, though, who the hell would ever expect someone to try to murder them over a job?
“Surprise!” he said, voice full of that wicked glee like that guy inThe Shining.
“Ritchie, open the door. You don’t want to do this,” I told him as I tried not to move my arm too much as I reached into my bag, trying to find my phone.
I couldn’t say if he saw the movement, or if someone simply cut him off in traffic, but Ritchie slammed on the brake, making the contents of my bag spill all over the seat and floor.
I was about to reach for my phone, fuck the consequences, when it slid up under the driver’s seat.
Damnit.
I felt the hysteria rise up, needing to tamp it back down. I couldn’t lose my cool. I had to stay focused. I could still get myself out of this.
I needed a weapon.
I had… perfume. Which would work in his eyes if he looked at me. There was a pen. Another eye-type weapon. Then… my keys.
My keys.
With the tracking device.
There was a slight sense of relief at seeing that, at knowing that, eventually, Brock was going to know where I was.
The problem was… I wanted to be alive when he found me.
So I had to try to get myself free.
Without a proper weapon, I did the only thing I could do.
I flew forward and wrapped my hands around his throat, pressing as hard as I could, since I had no idea where I was supposed to press to make him pass out.
Undeterred, Ritchie turned the car into a lot, and slammed on the brake.
Surely, that was what made my vision spin.
It didn’t quite explain why my head was starting to feel fuzzy, though. Why my heart, that should have been hammering with my anxiety and fear, seemed to be going slower and slower.
What was going on?