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As Sam pulled the door shut, Clara scrambled behind the wheel and punched it.
They were barely a wink of taillights when the oncoming headlights reached Terry’s car, slowed. Then stopped.
“Doll! He hit you so hard. Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Sucker punched me is what he did. He’s out now. Sorry about themotherfucker.”
“I swear I nearly said that myself, I was that scared. This is her doing, doll. I feel it. She whispered right in his ear so he knew you were coming up behind him. Gave him enough strength to hurt you.
“We’ll make her sorry for it.”
Boone didn’t drive this way most nights, but he’d started seeing a woman who’d told him to come on over after work. Since they’d closed down a little later than usual on a weeknight, he’d lingered in the parking lot, texted her to be sure it was still on.
Her reply had given him a real boost.
I’ve got the beer cold and the music low.
Though he knew they were there, he’d checked his wallet for the two condoms he’d slipped in.
He’d driven away with the music and his mood high.
With under two miles to go, he spotted Terry’s car.
“Well, shit.” No way he could just drive past and leave his boss, and his friend, stranded.
He pulled behind the car, and as he got out, shouted.
“What the hell, Terry. I got a hot date waiting, and…”
He opened the door. He didn’t see Terry, but saw the keys in the ignition, saw Terry’s phone in its hands-free holder.
“What the fuck?”
Thinking maybe Terry needed a quick pit stop, he called out his name. With no response, he went back to his car for a flashlight, shined it into the trees.
“Come on, man, where are you?”
Though he knew Terry wouldn’t walk off leaving his keys and phone, he shined the flashlight down the dark road.
As worry began to crawl in his belly, he got out his own phone and called Hallie.
In the dream, Sloan walked away from the gas pumps toward the mini-mart. And as she walked, dread began to spread in her belly. Overhead, a storm that hadn’t been there swirled, blocking out the moon and stars and blowing a bitter cold wind.
She wanted to turn back, to drag Joel into the truck, to drive away, away from the lights of the mini-mart, out of the storm.
But she couldn’t. Even as the dread spread, pinched, clawed, she couldn’t stop herself from walking forward, from opening the glass door and stepping into that hard light.
The counterman radiated terror. In the dream, she heard his thoughts:
Help me. Please, help me.
And the man facing him turned. Raised the gun. And fired it.
As the bullets struck her, as pain tore through her, as she fell, she heard music.
She lay a moment, shocked, bleeding, watching the storm build overhead.
Tossed between two worlds, she fumbled for the phone on her nightstand.