Keep Them Close(2)

But I move no farther. My chest burning, eyes filling with tears, I am locked in place, unable to step away from the car and jog to the house. I can’t do it.

And the reason only deepens my humiliation. If I do this, he’ll know I know. I may get away with it in terms of the authorities, but Finley will know. And that will inevitably cascade downward to the end of our marriage.

You still want him, Allison. You’re not ready to let go. You think there’s still a chance to salvage this, that this will pass, that he’ll find his way back to you, that you didn’t waste the last twenty years of your life with him. You’re a coward. No. You’re a fool.

My head falls back on my shoulders as I let out a moan. Above me, a full moon hangs low, a bright reddish-pink. The Strawberry Moon, or so my son, Grayson, told me this morning before leaving for a friend’s cabin in Michigan.

Grayson. Yet another reason to keep my powder dry for the time being. Do I want to put him through this right now? He just graduated high school a week ago and will be off to college—NYU—in about two months. Let him enjoy the summer.

Once he’s gone, I can deal with this, with Finley, with this joke of a marriage.

I jump back in my SUV, a dull pain in my gut. I drive through the subdivision toward the main road, Woods Edge, that will lead me south to Grace Village. I turn right on Woods Edge, the road ahead empty save for the thin stripe of my headlights cutting through the dark, the trees on either side blurring into black walls, my vision cloudy from tears—

Out of nowhere, a harsh light floods the interior of my car. My rearview mirror fills with a truck flying up behind me, its front grille like the jaws of something built to devour. A horn blares, a deep bellow that vibrates in my bones.

I grip the steering wheel and brace for impact.





2


Allison

By some small miracle, the truck does not collide with the rear end of my car. But its grille remains all but pressed against my fender. Where did this guy come from? He must be going twice the speed limit at least. Adrenaline rushes through me as I jerk the wheel straight and slam the accelerator hard, past thirty-five, past forty-five, past fifty. But the truck with its jacked-up tires stays on me, filling my rearview mirror with chrome and rage.

The road is narrow, a single southbound lane with a speed limit of thirty-five, no shoulder, just a drop-off into black forest. I can’t pull over, can’t let him pass. I’m trapped in a tunnel.

His lights flare, high beams burning into me. My fingers clamp the wheel. My heart thunders. Every nerve in me screams, Move faster, but where? How?

Up ahead, the stoplight, an intersection. A left turn lane opens beside me as Woods Edge joins a connecting southbound street. Maybe he’ll pass. Maybe he got the rage out of his system. Maybe he’ll flip me the bird or cuss at me. I’ll let him. Let him get it out and go away.

Instead, the truck swerves hard left, rumbling up beside me and jerking to a stop at the red light. I don’t look in the driver’s direction, just wave my hand, a concession, an apology.

Then I hear the door slam. He’s out of his truck.

A mountain of a man, denim overalls over a T-shirt, coming around the front of his car and barreling toward me. His face twisted, spit flying as he shouts. I can’t hear the words—just the rage. He grabs my door handle and yanks. The lock holds. I flinch back, my whole body pressed against the far side of the seat.

Go away, I say in my head, though terror chokes my throat. I raise my trembling hands in apology.

He rattles the handle again, violent, hungry. “You stupid cunt, where’d you learn to drive?”

I don’t think. I just floor it, tires squealing, my SUV lurching through the red light. My chest feels like it might split open, but I don’t look back. Not until the roar of his engine tells me he’s coming again.

Closer. Faster. Angrier than ever.

What do I do, where do I go? If I drive home, he’ll know where I live. That’s what they tell people in my position, right? Don’t go home. Find the nearest police station. Call 911.

But I have no phone. Just an unregistered, unloaded gun and a box of bullets, inside my middle console.

I’m breathing in quick, shallow gasps when I see it up ahead, the hulking shape of Mortimer College’s athletic building—where my brother, Luke, works—its parking lot wide and empty, lit by a scatter of overhead lights. Like an oasis in the dark. A safe place. Maybe.

I veer hard into the lot, my tires bumping over the curb. The space yawns open, empty this late at night. But even as I draw into the lot, I know how little sense it makes. Even if Luke were inside, his office is on the other side of the building. And I have no phone, no ability to reach him.

The truck follows, bouncing in after me.

I cut across the asphalt toward a corner where I know there’s another exit. I pray it’s open, that I can slip away. But when I reach it, the gate is down, a chain stretched across, padlocked, shut off for the night.

My stomach drops.

I wrench the wheel, turning the car in nearly a 180, desperate, aiming back toward the open space.

And then he’s there. The yellow truck lunges sideways, tires squealing, sliding until it blocks me. Perpendicular to me, his souped-up truck the long end of a triangle, the corners of the lot the short sides. With me in the middle.

I am trapped.

The man gets out again. This time, slower. Measured. He reaches behind his seat and pulls out something long, dark, glinting in the light. A crowbar.