Chapter 67
“Idon’t want to hurt you,” he said simply as we started driving down the road away from Main Street and toward the mountain.
“Then don’t,” I replied.
He glanced at me.
“And yet you’re trying very hard to hurt me.”
“I’m holding you accountable.”
“For what?” His tone sharpened slightly. “A misunderstanding? Hope, when I threw that tray that day, I hadn’t meant to hurt you.”
Liar, I thought.
“You didn’t just hurt me, though. Did you?”
“Brittany is exaggerating what happened. I barely touched her.”
My hands curled into fists in my lap.
“You are a liar. And nothing you say is going to convince me to stop trying to get you reported for what you did.”
He pressed harder on the gas pedal, and my pulse spiked.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“Relax,” he nearly growled. “Just somewhere quieter.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I said, trying not to panic as the speedometer reached seventy. We were on a winding road that wound farther and farther up the mountainside.
“No,” he replied softly. “I’m correcting one.”
The car continued climbing.
The heater hummed. The windshield wipers brushed away flecks of snow that were falling harder now.
“How far are we going?” I asked.
“As far as we need to.”
My stomach dropped. Was he going to harm me? I had no idea how far Conrad would go to get something he wanted. I was unsure how unhinged he actually was.
I tested the door handle subtly, but it was still locked. Then I reached into my pocket to try to grab my phone. Maybe I could discreetly call someone and—
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned. And my whole body froze.
I slowly pulled my hand back out of my pocket. I didn’t want to make him angry, because I was worried he’d do something reckless.
Thankfully, he had to slow down due to the blizzard; seventy dropped to forty.
There were lots of snow banks on the side of the road up here—thick, heavy drifts left behind by plows.
If I could angle us into one, maybe I could make a semi-controlled crash occur.
The airbags might go off. We both might get injured. But it might be my only chance to run.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said again, trying to keep him talking. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, it won’t fix anything.”
He didn’t look at me. “I think,” he said evenly, “that once you understand the consequences of continuing, you’ll make a wiser decision.”
Cold slid through my veins. Consequences. So he was really going to do something that would land us on the front page of the news.
I was not about to become the next victim in some horrific crime scene. I’d rather try to get myself free and hurt myself in the process than let that happen. I could survive a broken bone or two.
The road curved ahead, sharper this time. And he had to slow down to make the bend.
It was the perfect time and speed to attempt to swerve the car.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I lunged across the console and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, yanking it hard to the right, angling us directly toward the snowbank.
The car jerked violently.
“What are you doing?” he shouted, grabbing for control.
Tires screamed against the icy pavement. The back end of his car fishtailed, and the force of the turn was felt deep in my stomach.
He fought me, wrenching the wheel back, but I used my whole body weight, pulling with everything I had left.
The world tilted, and we slammed straight into the snowbank.
The airbags exploded.