Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

Heart pounding with fear, she thought of Josh Sykes. Had she embarrassed him in front of his friends and now he was getting his jollies by scaring her half to death? This was nuts. The car behind was so close, its headlights blinding. Jenna slowed down, hoping the guy would take a hint. No. He just hung on her bumper, begging for an accident.

“Cretin,” Jenna muttered, beginning to sweat. She thought of all the warnings about predators who intentionally rear-ended a woman alone in a car to force her to pull over. When the potential victim took the bait and stopped, hopping out of her car, intent on reaming the guy out and offering to exchange insurance information, she was abducted at gun-or knife-point, to disappear or be found later, raped or dead.

Don’t panic!

Jenna’s jaw tightened.

She thought of the note she’d received, of the feeling she couldn’t shake that she was being watched, of the horrible fact that one woman’s body had been found in the mountains and another local woman had gone missing.

Stop it. This is just some idiot kid—probably Josh and those jerks he calls friends.

She licked her lips and glanced again in the mirror. Fear pounded through her bloodstream. Hang in there. Be smart.

But the guy just kept coming.

She accelerated.

He kept up with her.

Trees and mile signs flashed by.

She slowed down.

Felt a bump.

Her bones jarred.

“No!” She gripped the wheel but the Jeep’s tires slid.

Oh, Christ!

Another car, driving the opposite direction. Jenna flashed her lights madly, but it flew by. Where could she go? Anywhere she pulled in, he might follow. No, she couldn’t stop.

Bam!

He hit her again. Harder this time.

“Son of a bitch,” she growled as the Jeep started to spin. She started to put on the brakes, then eased into the turn, feeling the wheels grip as her heart beat crazily.

Think, Jenna, think. Are you going to lead whoever it is back to your house?

The sheriff’s department was in the opposite direction and she didn’t have enough gas to make it into Troutdale…oh, God…She wasn’t far from the turnoff to her home, and the cell phone was in the car, though out of reach on the floor of the passenger seat beneath the pizza box. She couldn’t risk reaching down for it.

But the moron behind you doesn’t know you dropped it.

She could fake him out. Maybe.

Thinking she was out of her mind but praying her ruse would work, she took her right hand off the wheel and fished through her purse. With one eye on the road, she retrieved her small black garage door opener and held it in front of her, pretended to punch out buttons on her “phone,” then held the palm-sized gadget to her ear. Hopefully the guy with his intense headlights would see what she was doing, yet not realize she was faking it. As she drove, she nodded, moving her mouth, making up a fake conversation, and sweating bullets.

Maybe the driver of the vehicle behind her was just a bad driver.

And maybe pigs really do fly.

She glanced in her rearview mirror again.

Was it her imagination or had the truck slowed down?

Dear God, please.