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MARGOT

M y eyes stay glued to the unmarked SUV behind me.

It’s driving too close. Way too close. One stomp of the brake will send them crashing into me.

I’m almost to the police station, only a few blocks away, but I stop at a red light and throw on my blinker. The SUV follows me as I turn. I’m ninety percent sure it’s the police. A detective or something making sure I’m in fact going to the police station.

Which is terrifying as hell.

Because I know I can’t.

I thought I could, for the sake of clearing my name, but I can’t. I’m too afraid He’ll be at the station, and I find it impossible to believe he would ever let Nikita make a deal to get me off. He wants me to suffer. He’d laugh if I ran right into his arms.

So I can’t go.

I step on the gas to speed through a yellow light, but the SUV doesn’t stop either. It bumps into me from behind, a little love tap in case I didn’t notice them before.

They want me afraid.

Any second, I think blue and red lights will flash and an officer will come on a loudspeaker, asking me to pull over.

But it doesn’t come. And they bump me again.

“Shit,” I hiss, stepping harder on the gas. Horns blare when I dart through a red light, tires screeching to avoid hitting me. I think for sure the SUV will stop, but it careens through, crashing into the front end of an Impala.

I cover my mouth as I gasp, peering in the rearview. It isn’t until the SUV shoves the Impala out of the way, roaring to catch back up with me that it occurs to me this might not be the police.

It might be worse.