“Where are you going? My house is in the other direction. I live in the city, not over the Bay Bridge in the East Bay.”
I try the door handle, but it doesn’t work. I push my shoulder into the door, hoping it’s only stuck. I push harder, putting my whole weight into the door. It doesn’t budge.
“I know where you live,” he sneers. “We’re going for a ride.”
“What are you talking about? Take me back! Stop the car! Let me out!”
He ignores me and doesn’t respond. When my panic levels out to an even terror, I begin to think clearly. The app documented my ride. My friends and family will look for me. I stare down at my phone.
I can call 911.
I dial.
Nothing.
I look to see how many bars are on my phone, and instead it reads “No Service.” My heart races faster than it ever has.
I see the driver hold up a contraption that looks almost like a garage door opener. “This is called a cell phone jammer. No cell service for you.”
My blood turns cold. I try the door again. I finally realize the child safety locks are engaged. I don’t know what to do.
Holy crap. What did I get into?
I verified everything when he drove up.
What has set this guy off?
I look frantically around me. People are busily going about their day, heading home for the evening, driving over the Bay Bridge and heading east away from San Francisco. No one looks at other drivers, too busy concentrating on the narrow lanes of the bridge and five lanes of traffic.
My pulse quickens, and I begin to sweat. I’m breathing too quick and start to hyperventilate. My mind is racing.
I think of Mason. I know he’ll turn over hell to find me.
I think of my brother and desperately wish that my twin telepathy actually worked for once.
I think of my three best friends.
Emerson. I’ve known her since our freshman year at Stanford. She was so busy with the golf team and her classes that she hardly paid attention to my drama, but she quickly became a steadfast friend.
Hadlee grew up next door, and when her mother died, her dad left her to be cared for by nannies as he searched through three more wives looking for a replacement. She essentially moved into my room.
Greer’s mother is sick. Her father plied Greer with money so she’d stay and take care of her mother while he started a new family. Now she has a wonderful husband, and I’m sure she’ll be pregnant any minute.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop this. Even though we’re going over the bridge in heavy traffic, moving well below the speed limit, if I could open the door, what use would it be? We’re going too fast and the traffic is moving too quickly for me to get out.
An evil, maniacal laugh comes from him. “Face it, you’re mine!”
I sit back in my seat, knowing I need to think, not dwell. I close my eyes and hear the rhythm of the bridge. Bu-bump, bu-bump. I take a big breath and hold it for a count of three, then purse my lips and blow out. I do that again and again as we pass over the bridge. We head north on 80 toward Sacramento. The traffic begins to thin, and his speed increases.
I need to get him talking. I need him to see me as a real person, not someone the newspapers and gossip columns have made up. “What did I ever do to you?”
“You have no idea,” he growls. “I know who you are and where you work. I know all about you and your little group of friends at SHN.”
Holy shit, this guy is a stalker. How did he manage to get my ride? How is it even possible?
He exits the freeway and takes a four-lane road through the Contra Costa mountain range. I’m trying to keep talking while I pay attention to every turn we make.
“I know all about them. Dillon thinks he’s so smart. He’s not. Cameron thinks he’s so great with computers. He’s not. Mason never liked me; he always thought he was smarter than me and that he had better business acumen. Well, I showed them.”
We transition to the 680 and begin heading south on the other side of the mountains in the hot central valley. It’s almost like we’re doing a circle. Maybe he’s going to rant and rave for a while and then drop me at home. I decide to keep him talking. “How do you know Dillon, Cameron, and Mason?”
“I’ve known them since we went to school together.”
“When did they go to school together?” Duh. They all met at Stanford.
He glosses right over my question. “We met then, too. You were all high and mighty. Mizz Caro-line Are-no. La-tee-da with your French last name and your big trust fund. You’ve never had to work a day in your life.”
I need to direct him to share more about himself and not add to his craziness by defending myself. “I don’t recall meeting you. When did we meet?”
“Oh, we’ve met lots of times,” he says snidely.
He doesn’t elaborate and begins to mutter a little bit to himself. I try to listen to what he’s saying, but I can’t make it out. I don’t think he’s drunk, just mad. Mad as a hornet.
“You guys and your little clickie-club. No one is ever good enough for you. You snub anyone who tries to break into your little group. Oh, I know all about you.”
I stare at the side of his face. He doesn’t look familiar.
We slow as we enter some of the larger towns on the other side of the Contra Costa mountain range. I keep watching my phone, waiting to see if I get any bars.
Nothing.
It’s dark now, and all I can see are headlights of the oncoming cars. It’s getting stuffy in the car. “Can we crack the window?”
“No.”
I begin to do my breathing exercises as we approach San Jose. I look in my bag for the water bottle I always keep there and my keys fall out. I push them out of the way as I search and then notice the safety hammer attached to my keyring.
Of course! The hammer is made to break a window!
We have to get off the freeway at some point. He’ll need gas eventually. I can wait. My anxiety begins to ebb.
Suddenly he explodes. “Dillon is a giant pussy. He’s all about any slut who waves her snatch in front of him and then forgets everyone else around him. He goes wherever a pussy leads him.”
I might as well engage him. “I don’t know if you know this, but he’s happily married and has a little boy.”