Blood & Mistletoe (Silent Nights, Sinful Nights #3)

Chapter 1

RILEY

Ilock the door to my studio apartment at eleven forty-three on a Tuesday night, my duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a garment bag containing my bridesmaid dress draped across my other arm.

The hallway stinks again, Mr. Carter's horrible sauerkraut.

Makes me glad I'm headed home for a month of holiday festivities and wedding prep.

I take the stairs because the elevator's been broken since October, and when I push through the building's front door, the November air bites at my face.

The slog to the parking garage feels farther away tonight with my bags in tow, but I'm full of holiday spirit and expectation of a great trip.

I barely notice when I try to open the wrong car, parked a few spaces down from my own vehicle—which should've been obvious to me since my right mirror is duct taped on thanks to a side swipe incident.

I've never noticed this car here before, but New York is a big city.

When I finally figure out that this stranger's car isn’t going to open with my key fob, I open the back door of my own sedan and toss my duffel across the seat, then lay the garment bag flat beside it so the dress won't wrinkle.

My mom will inspect it the second I walk through the door in Buffalo, and I already know she'll find fault with how I packed it.

Chuckling to myself about Mom's nagging, I close the door and walk around to the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel.

The leather seat's cold through my jeans, and I start the engine, letting it idle while I adjust the heat.

Then I drop my phone in the cup holder and notice the battery is only at twelve percent, and my charger is packed in the duffel, which I turn over my shoulder to glare at.

I don't want to get back out to get it, and I know the way like the back of my hand. I'll charge it when I get home, or when I have to stop to pee. No sense in freezing myself again when the car's just starting to warm up.

As I pull into traffic, I yawn a little. Starting the drive so late makes it harder to stay awake. I'll need some coffee soon. But it means fewer cars on the highway, which allows me to drive a bit faster and make better time—something my sister would lecture me about, my speeding.

I don't know what I'm gonna do without her.

She'll be married in six weeks' time and I'll still be a lonely, single woman with no prospects.

And all that sisterly nagging she does, which she inherited from Mom, will be turned into nagging her new husband—who I might add is really fucking hot.

If he hadn't asked Lila out when he had, I'd have asked him out.

I reach the on-ramp to the highway and merge into the right lane.

The traffic thins out as I leave the city limits behind, and soon, there's only the occasional truck I'm rumbling in the left lane.

I turn on the radio, flipping through static until I find a station playing classic rock I barely know lyrics to, but it's catchy—until about forty minutes into my drive when I hear a funny noise from the back end, and vibration starts to shimmy the wheel.

At first, I think it's the radio cutting out, but it's not.

It's a low, rhythmic thumping that doesn't match the beat of the song.

I turn the volume down, and the sound only gets louder, coming from somewhere behind me.

"Fuck's sake," I grunt as I ease off the gas, and the thumping slows but doesn't stop.

This is the last thing I need right now, to have to change a tire or call roadside assistance when I just started the drive. But I can't keep going and just turn up the radio as if it'll make the mechanical malfunction less important.

The car drifts to the side of the road and the tires crunch in the gravel as I pull off the shoulder and slow to a stop. The car bumps and rocks as the right side dips into grass and I put the car in park.

I sit there for a moment and stare at my phone, now at one percent thanks to a stretch of town where services are lacking and my phone has to search the entire time, and I know even if I wanted to call roadside assistance, I won't have the battery to do so.

Which means I'm changing a flat on the side of the highway, alone, in the middle of the night.

I drop my phone back in the cup holder and get out of the car just as a semi zips past, pushing a hard breeze that bites my skin.

I hate being cold. I hate night time, and I hate being in situations like this.

But I walk to the offending back tire and crouch down, running my hand along the top.

The rubber's flat, the rim pressing against the pavement.

No way I'm going anywhere with this sucker, and with the obvious bolt protruding from it, there's no way I'm going to be able to plug it, either.

Just what I need—an expensive car repair too.

This thing is all-wheel drive and the service center told me last time when I replace one tire, I have to do them all, which means a grand at least. "F.

M. L," I grunt and stand up, rubbing my forehead with one cold hand.

If Dad were here, he'd whip that tire right out and fix it for me, but I'm on my own, learning that Father knows best isn't a saying for the weak.

This is the reason he made me learn to change a flat.

So back to the front I go where I pull the trunk latch and press the button for my hazard lights, which start flicking on and off immediately.

When I round the car and open the trunk, the interior light flickers on.

And there's a man inside.

I gasp, looking around instantly to see if anyone is around here, and I stifle a scream that wants to come out.

The man's curled on his side, his knees drawn up toward his chest, his face turned away from me. His jacket is dark, maybe black or navy, and his hands are tucked against his body.

I freeze as my brain tries to process what I'm seeing and reconcile the image in front of me with the reality I know to be true. I locked my car when I went upstairs to get my bags. I know I did. Or I think I did, and how the fuck did some man get in my trunk? And is he dead?

Is this fucker just dead in my car now?

I take a step back, my hand still gripping the edge of the trunk as I try not to retch. I force myself to lean forward, to get a better look at his face, pushing him once to see if he budges, but he doesn’t move.

His eyes are closed. His skin is pale, almost gray in the dim trunk light. There's no rise and fall to his chest at all.

He's dead. Christ. I have a dead man in my car.

I stumble backward, and before I'm thinking, my stomach is erupting.

I fall on my knees beside the car, throwing up every bit of my supper and that cup of eggnog I drank at dinner.

It burns coming up and my eyes are burning with tears.

I can't even call the fucking cops because my phone is dead too.

This can't be happening. I’m on the side of a fucking highway with no one around to help me, and cars are just driving past like this is normal. But there's a dead body in my car that I did not put there, and I have no way to explain it.

A faint vibration breaks through the roaring in my ears. It's coming from him—from his pocket. I hear it now, a low buzzing that repeats every few seconds. His phone is ringing? Oh God…

My car was safely in a secure garage. How on earth could someone put a dead body in the trunk? This is insane. I'm barely able to comprehend my life under normal circumstances and this just takes the cake.

Forcing myself upward, I stand by the trunk avoiding the downwind stench of my own vomit as I use my coat sleeve to wipe my nose. The acrid taste of bile lingers in my mouth, and I spit it out as I hear the same rumble from my trunk.

The phone vibrates again, and this time it doesn't stop.

It keeps buzzing over and over, like whoever is trying to reach this man feels desperate to contact him, like they're wondering if he's dead in a ditch somewhere.

It makes me feel sick again, that this guy's family is looking for him while I stand here gawking and throwing up.

And I can't just ignore it. I look down at the man's jacket and see the light dancing from his inner jacket pocket against his white dress shirt.

I can't call the police. My phone is dead. I could wave down a passing car, but the highway is nearly deserted, and the thought of flagging down a stranger at this hour makes my skin crawl. I don't know who they'd be. I don't know if they'd help or if they'd make this worse.

And the phone keeps ringing.

I close my eyes, knowing what I have to do.

The thought makes my stomach turn, but there's no other option.

I step closer to the trunk and reach out, my hand hovering over his jacket.

The fabric feels damp under my fingertips as I slide my hand into the inner pocket, moving carefully, trying not to think about the fact that I'm touching a dead man.

And when I find the phone, my fingers close around it and I pull it free.

The screen is lit up, the caller ID a private number. I stare at it for a moment, then swipe to answer. But before I can say anything, the call ends. The screen goes dark, and the phone powers off.

I press the button on the side, holding it down until the screen lights up again. The phone boots slowly, the logo appearing and then fading. When it finally unlocks, I open the dial pad and start typing 9-1-1.

The screen goes black.

I freeze, staring at the phone. I press the button again, and the screen lights up, but as soon as I try to dial, it shuts off.

I try three more times, and each time, the result is the same.

The phone won't stay on long enough for me to make a call, and when I try again this time, a notification appears at the top, a text message preview that makes my blood run cold.

Unknown number: 12:18 PM: Riley Maddox, I know who you are. Answer the phone.

The phone starts ringing.

I stare at the screen with my pulse roaring in my ears.

The name Riley Maddox glows in the notification bar, and it freaks me out.

I spin around, looking up and down the highway to make sure no one is watching me.

A few cars have passed, but no one has stopped and it's dark out.

I can't see a fucking thing. I don't know if someone is hiding off in the distance somewhere watching me.

Whoever this is fucking with me, it's really starting to piss me off. And scare me too. I have no way to get help and I have no way to protect myself. All I can do is answer the phone like the message says and pray whoever it is doesn’t hurt me.

"Hello," I mumble into the phone, still scanning the highway in fear.

The voice on the other end is male, low and steady. "Riley."

I grip the phone tighter. "Who is this?"

"That doesn't matter right now." The man's voice is gravelly and stern. "What matters is that you listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you."

I swallow hard around a dry lump in my throat. "How do you know my name?"

"I know a lot more than your name." He pauses, and I hear the faint sound of movement on his end, a door closing, maybe, or footsteps on concrete. "I know you're standing on the side of the highway about twenty-three miles outside the city. And I know you just found what's in your trunk."

My stomach drops as I look down at the body. So either this fucker was following me, or he watched me get in my car in the garage, or something else much sicker is going on.

"Who are you?" I ask again, feeling a little bolder.

"Someone who needs you to do exactly as I say," he says calmly, like I’m supposed to just listen to him. "You're gonna bring him to me. It's that simple."

"I can't drive," I say, my words spilling out faster now. "I have a flat tire. That's why I pulled over. I was trying to—"

"I know about the tire," he interrupts. "Change it."

I scoff and feel myself getting angry. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Completely."

My eyes clench shut as I curl my hand into a fist. "I'm not doing this. I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." Now he sounds upset, like he's not playing around, and I get the sudden impression that I'm not dealing with a normal person. "Because if you don't, Riley, you're next."

The line goes dead.

Moments later, another text comes in with an address listed, and I assume that's where I'm supposed to be taking this dead man who found his way into my life.

"Ahh!" I scream into the darkness and then kick the damn flat tire again in a rage.

The phone is clearly being monitored and controlled by someone, a hacker, maybe, and they know where I am.

Who knows why they put this body in my trunk or why I'm being forced to play this game, but one thing I understand is, if I don't go along with it, I could be as dead as this man.