No. That’s crazy. It’s just some aggressive New York driver. There are enough of them in this city. That’s why I never wanted to drive in this town.
I decide I’ll just get off at the next exit, and take the long way back to Mara’s, just to be sure.
At that thought, I surge ahead, testing the Porsche’s speed as I race toward the next exit, heart firmly lodged in my throat.
The windshield is fogging up with the rain, making it almost impossible to see. I don’t know the controls well enough to fix it. I reach up and wipe the windshield with my hand, squinting as the headlights from opposing traffic slash across my line of vision. Then I wipe at my own eyes and realize I’m still crying.
Sobbing is more like it.
This was a mistake.
I swallow. Right now, I want nothing more than to sink into bed. Or the couch at Mara’s. That’s what I should’ve done: Gone to sleep and put this whole horrible day behind me.
I let out a relieved breath when I spy the arrow for the next exit. Throwing on my blinker, I wrap both hands tightly around the wheel and pray that the sedan will pass me.
At first, I think they will. The car draws level, but then at the last second, they swerve—directly into me!
There’s a jolt of impact, and then the Porsche spins out of control.
Panic flashes through me, lightning-fast, and
I grip the wheel in terror, trying to stop the car from the wild fishtail it’s been launched into. I swerve to the right, then the left, and then I see headlights, closing in on me.
I scream.
There’s another sick crunch of impact, then I go spinning, weightless. Airborne.
When the car hits the ground, it’s with a terrific, sickening crash, the crunch of metal. Thrown forward like a rag doll, the steering wheel rises up to meet me with such force, I can’t do anything to stop it. I hear the squeal of tires, feel the crunch and spray of glass shattering around me, and close my eyes.
And then everything goes black.