Chapter 2
Wrong place, wrong time
Dina
I’m pretty sure there’s a body under my car.
I can’t think of anything else that would have made that sickening thud before the tires heaved over it. Whatever it is (I hope I’m wrong) tilted the car to the left. The tilt is mild, so at least I’m not toppling into traffic.
Which is good because the incoming traffic is emergency responders, including police cars with flashing lights and blaring sirens. I’ve never seen this many cop cars. Since Selnoa is ruled by criminals, I’m shocked we even have this many.
I sit frozen in my seat, too afraid to check if whoever I hit is alive or dead. I’m pretty sure I’ll join whoever the officers are arresting up there at the Crossbow mansion in the back of a cop car.
They’ll cuff me on their way down.
The sirens ring in my ears, the passing vehicles are a blur, but when an ambulance emerges from behind the curve up the hill, I spot Tris behind the wheel.
She works in the emergency room at Selnoa General Hospital, located right across the street from my hair salon.
Which reminds me that I need to get to work so I can pay my lawyer to finalize my divorce before my ex takes my business or I go bankrupt, whichever comes first.
The last car in their emergency convoy passes me.
Thick clouds of dust and I are the only things on the road.
I can’t very well run the person over again and take off.
I mean, I could, but I won’t. Nevertheless, I should, because accidents are punishable by law.
Even though the very definition of an accident is something one or both parties had no intention of doing. Intention matters, doesn’t it?
I have good intentions.
I want the person under my car to be alive.
I didn’t mean to hit anyone.
I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I’m a hairdresser. I want people to look pretty and feel good. It’s what I do. My daddy will testify that I have good moral character.
I step out of the car and walk around it, bending to look under.
A man lies on his side with his leg stuck under my tire.
He’s not moving, and I can barely make my feet move toward him. I’m terrified of what I’ll see. A smashed, bloodied face that’ll never smile again because of me? Was I not watching the road? I swear I wasn’t texting, Your Honor.
A long, bulky, hard-cased bag is attached to his arm by a strap. I lean over it to look at him. With a gasp, I cover my mouth. There’s blood all over his face.
Oh my God, I killed a man.
Drive away! Get in your car and get out of here.
With a shaky hand, I pick up his wrist and feel for a pulse. He has one.
“Hello!” Yes, he’s alive. “Hello! Holy shit, I should’ve flagged down Tris.
” What the hell was I thinking, sitting in my car contemplating my life choices while a person fought for his life trapped under my tire?
It’s not like I haven’t contemplated my life choices enough since Ashley and Sergei confessed their relationship and the divorce proceedings started.
“Thank God you made it. Are you okay?” I crouch beside him. Of course the man’s not okay. I just hit him with my car. Duh. When he doesn’t answer my dumb question, I rub his shoulder. “I’m calling for help now.”
The man says something and grabs his leg, trying to pull it free.
“Your leg is under the tire. That’s why you can’t move. I swear to God, I wasn’t texting. I didn’t see you walking. I’m so sorry.” I frown at the phone. Why is the call center not picking up? I disconnect and dial again.
“Selnoa City Emergency Response, what’s your emergency?”
“I—”
The man twists at the waist and knocks the phone out of my hand.
I move to pick it up, but he mutters, “No.” He grimaces as he sits up and holds his leg. A single shrug dumps the large bag from his shoulder, and he picks up the hem of his dirty T-shirt and wipes his face with it.
“There’s a cut on your face. Near the temple,” I say, crouched next to him. “It’s still bleeding. Um, I can call again.”
The man shakes his head. “Bring me your phone.”
Okay, maybe he wants to make the call himself. I retrieve the phone and notice the open line. I hand it to him, and he hangs up. I expect he’ll hand me back the phone, but he pockets it, then looks up at the sky, tilting his head.
I follow his gaze. “It’s a helicopter.”
The man grabs the sturdy bag and shoves it under the car, creating a prop to lift the car enough so that he can tug his injured foot free. Then he scoots under the car and stays there.
The helicopter passes over us.
The man comes out from under the car, but then slides back.
Another helicopter passes overhead.
Is he looking for something under there? Hopefully not a small dog. Or a child. Oh my God. I bend and look. Nobody else. For a moment there, I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown.
“Can I help you find anything?” I ask.
Finally, the man shimmies out and unfolds his lean swimmer’s body to well over six feet. Six four if I had to guess, but it’s hard to tell when he’s favoring his left leg. He wipes his bleeding temple with the back of his hand.
“You hit a pedestrian,” he says.
I swallow. Although I said plenty while I tried to get him help, I know better than to say anything to his accusation.
“We can sort this out between the two of us,” he suggests.
“We can?”
He nods.
“Then I hit the lottery.” I pinch my lips. “That was a joke. I’m sorry, I’m blathering. I’m nervous. I’ve never done this before. I want you to be okay.”
The man taps his ear. “No problem. I’ll handle this.” He pulls something out of his ear and throws it to the ground. He crushes whatever that was with his boot.
“Get in the car,” he says. “You’re driving.” He picks up his bag, rounds my car, and pops the trunk. The bag thuds when it lands inside, and the man opens the passenger door. “Let’s go.” He sits down and buckles up.
Go where? What’s he doing in my car? I stand there looking at him while he dangles my phone from between his fingers. It’s like he’s offering it as bait. I don’t need my phone bad enough to sit in the car with the stranger I struck with said car.
On second thought, maybe I do, since he didn’t turn me in. Why would he not let me call the emergency responders?
The Crossbow mansion is right up the hill.
Fuck. He might be one of Massio Crossbow’s men.
My face must show the fear that’s spiking my heart rate, because the man rolls down the window and sticks out his elbow, followed by his bloodied face. “Whatever you are thinking about me right now, you are probably right. Now think what I’m going to do if you don’t do what I ask.”
“Chase after me?”
“My ankle is swollen,” he says.
He can’t chase after me. “Then what will you do?” I ask. “I was never very good at guessing what men are thinking. My marriage to a man didn’t work out.” I throw up my hands. “What are you doing in my car?”
He rolls up his window and sits there watching me. One of his eyes might be lighter than the other, but it could also be the injury or the afternoon sun’s glare on the window. He’s in there, and I’m out here, and I’m not walking down the mountain. What choice do I have?
Also, it’s only then that I notice the dent in my front bumper. It looks like I hit a tree.
“Where to?” I ask as I sit in the driver’s seat. I cross my fingers. “Hope the car starts.”
It does. Thank God. My dad can fix the frame, but if I need a mechanic for anything else, I’d have to take it next door to Gus’s, and he’d charge at least for the parts. Which, for this kind of car, would be expensive.
The man takes my water bottle, uncaps it, and sips.
“Help yourself,” I tell him sarcastically.
“Thanks, I will. We’re going to your house.”
“Hm?”
“Drive to your house. I need a safe place to stay. Can you provide that?”
“Um, I could…yes, but I would rather you went to the hospital.” Or a police station.
How do I handle this guy?! What do I do? We all know Jesus would take him in and heal him, so I’m not asking myself what Jesus would do. No offense, Lord.
The man rattles off my address.
“How do you know where I live?”
“The car is registered in your name.” He opens the glove compartment and shows me pretty much my entire life.
Car registration, divorce paperwork, the bank statements I needed to get the loan to pay my lawyer, which I shoved in there quickly and forgot to take upstairs to the apartment. They’ve been there for a month.
My ex called me messy. I can’t say I’m tidy, that’s for sure.
“I have a husband at home. Kids. A dog.”
“You’re going through a divorce. The kid is in college.”
He gathered all this while I stared at him stupidly instead of getting in my car and not letting him uncover my entire life. Not that I could prevent him from taking whatever the heck he wanted. But still.
“You’ve got no choice, Dina.” He says my name as if he’s my daddy. “Drive the car.”