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Incoming call, Jackson Bruckner.

I should be focusing all my attention on the road, but after the conversation yesterday at my apartment, it’s hard not to get distracted by a call from Jackson. I don’t know what he could want. He made his opinion very clear: he did not believe me.

Despite my better instincts, I take the call.

“Hello,” I call out into the speaker phone.

“Tegan?” Jackson’s familiar voice fills my car. “Where are you?”

“What’s the difference to you?” I say bitterly. I still can’t believe how he spoke to me yesterday. Whatever you think happened, you need to put it behind you and sign the damn contract for your own good. I had thought that Jackson of all people would believe and support me. I thought he was a decent guy.

I feel so stupid.

“We need to talk. Are you home?”

“No.”

“Well, where are you?”

“Actually, that’s none of your business, Jackson.”

“Tegan.” There’s a loud crackling noise on the other line. I wonder where he’s calling from. “I need to…”

But before he can get any words out, there’s another crackle on the other line, and his next sentence is inaudible.

“I can’t hear you,” I say. “What was that?”

“Tegan,” he says, “Simon is…”

More crackles. I blink at the windshield, which has turned into a mass of blinding white. “What did you say?”

“Simon told…the police and…”

My heart speeds up. What is he telling me? Why would Simon be going to the police? What’s going on? I’ve got to find a place where I can get a decent signal.

Except where the hell am I?

I press my foot against the brake to pull over and get my bearings, but the pedal doesn’t respond. I press down harder, but there’s no traction at all on the road, and all I’ve got is front-wheel drive. I’m pretty good at driving in the snow but not in what I’m quickly realizing is a blizzard and also with a beach ball between me and the steering wheel. I pump on the brake frantically, but it does nothing.

And I’m heading right for a tree. Fast.

I turn the steering wheel in an attempt to avoid it, but the road is too slick. Nothing I’m doing is having any effect on my inevitable trajectory toward that tree. In a last-ditch effort, I press all the weight of my right foot onto the brake. That familiar electric pain shoots down my leg, but nothing happens. I’m not stopping. I’m not even slowing down.

And then a second later, the hood of my car smashes into the tree and crumples like a tin can.