“You’re getting in my car. Best case, you make it home. Worst case, your fingerprints are all over my ID and I get caught before I even finish burying you.”
“Charming.”
“Realistic. Don’t you watchDateline?”
“SVU.”
He smirks—just slightly. “Same shit. Open it.”
I do. And then pause.
Two driver’s licenses fall out.
One says Cole Dawson – New York. The other: Cole Banks – Pennsylvania.
“What the hell…” I look up at him. “This screams sketchy. Do you know how many heroines in horror movies die because they ignore things like this? I’m pretty sure I just became one of them.”
“Possibly.” He shrugs. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to decide.”
My instincts scream at me to run. But the truth is, if this guy wanted to hurt me, I’d already be in the trunk. And there’s something about him—something dangerous and dark, yeah—but also something... genuine.
He grabs a pack of gum and a protein bar and moves to the counter, paying for my things too.
Outside, his car waits. It’s not a truck like I expected—it’s a jet-black vintage Dodge Charger, sleek and deadly-looking, like something out of a movie.
He opens the passenger door for me and doesn’t say a word until we’re both inside. He doesn’t even ask me for my name.
As he pulls onto the road, I exhale for the first time in minutes and mutter under my breath:
“I hope myDatelineepisode gets good ratings.”
He glances over, eyes flicking to my mouth. “You always this dramatic?”
“No,” I say. “Usually I’m worse.”
2
COLE
The girl in my passenger seat is humming something soft and slow. Dark lyrics fall from her lips between breaths like she doesn’t realize she’s saying them out loud.
“Strangle you until your last breath…”
“Death looks good on you…”
If I were smarter, I’d turn the car around.
But I’ve never been good at listening to my gut—especially when someone looks like they need help. This? This exact moment is the kind of shit that’s gotten me into trouble for most of my life.
She’s curled into the passenger seat, soaked through in a clingy pink hoodie and cutoff jean shorts. Every few seconds, I catch her glancing over at me. Not shy. More like cautious curiosity—like she’s debating whether to thank me or claw the door open and roll.
Her eyes are unreal. Green like old glass in sunlight—fractured, sharp around the edges. Her mouth is full and slightly chapped, her lashes thick and wet.
She doesn’t look soft. She looks like something I’d want to paint in charcoal and oil—moody lighting, dripping water, tension in every line of her body.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
I nod once.
