One where mobsters meet and bodies are found. They’re mostly rumors, but I believe the shit out of them in this pitch-blackness that resembles a scene from one of my favorite true crime shows.
A faint light catches my attention in the rearview mirror and I squint. It’s not as strong as my headlights and the driver of what looks like a dark-colored van isn’t attempting to change lanes, even though I’m driving slow and there’s an empty lane on my left.
It could be the darkness or the forest surrounding me from both sides, but my level of paranoia shoots up like a vengeful bitch.
I step on the gas to speed up and the van behind me matches my pace.
Holy Jesus and all the angels.
They’re following me.
This isn’t me actually losing my mind and being overdramatic. There’s a dark van with dim headlights matching my speed and not changing lanes.
I reason with my mind that it could be an older person who’s not familiar with Blackwood’s roads. But in what world do old people drive black vans that are made for sinister purposes?
My head fills with images of kidnapped girls and sex trafficking and, holy shit, I think I’m going to throw up.
The high volume of the music drums in my head in sync with my beating heart and I put it on pause. I really don’t want my beloved metal associated with the moment of my kidnapping.
I hit the gas, propelling the car to a maddening speed, not caring that my vision is restricted and I could slam into anything. I swerve the car to the other lane, and sure enough, the van follows.
Okay, kidnapper dudes. I’m not one to be messed with.
If they knew me even a little, they wouldn’t dare to come near me. I’d fight to the death.
Or at least, that’s the pep talk I give myself. The actual reality, though? I might not be able to get a chance to fight.
I keep stealing a look at the van every now and then, my heart thundering and my hands sweaty. My legs shake and I force them to remain still or I’ll cause my own demise.
It doesn’t take me long to arrive at the gas station, across from which there’s an old diner. The car is still on my tail, and now that there’s more light, I notice that it’s all black. Even its windows are tinted, blocking my view of who’s inside.
They’re really kidnappers.
My gaze strays to my surroundings, trying to find anyone to ask for help. The police station is far from here and if I drive there, I have a feeling they’ll make their move before I can reach it.
In my frantic search, my eyes lock on a man exiting his car in front of the diner.
The PI.
I signal at him with my lights and he turns around. Though I can’t make out his features, he’s tall, sporting a black shirt and slacks to perfection.
He nods at me and I rev the vehicle toward him in my hasty attempt to reach him. I pull my car to a screeching halt behind his and stare at the rearview mirror, my lips parting.
There’s no one.
The van that followed me through the forest road to here isn’t there.
I blink a few times, and sure enough, it’s really not there and has vanished as if it never existed.
A knock sounds on my window and I flinch before recognizing the PI’s build.
With a deep breath, I pull myself together, gather my bag with a shaking hand, and step out of the car.
I get my first good look at the PI and he’s nothing like I expected. First of all, he’s Asian like me and has strong, charismatic features. His eyes are black and piercing and his double eyelids, a quality rare to those of us of Western Asian heritage, add a drooping quality to his stare.
His face is harsh and cut with a nose that’s as naturally high as his cheekbones. Not only that, but he has long, thick hair the color of ink. It’s currently tied in a low ponytail, but if it were loose, it’d reach his shoulders.
He sounded young on the phone, but I never thought he’d be this young. I expected someone in his forties o