He glanced at his tablet, then back at me. Something in my expression must have told him this wasn't casual, because his posture shifted—alert, attentive, the nurse in him reading my body language the way he read vital signs.
"I'm done," he said. "Where are we going?"
"The mountains. There's a place I want to show you."
He didn't hesitate. "Let me grab my coat."
Twenty minutes later we were heading west on I-70, the city falling away behind us as the foothills rose on either side. Cinder sat in the passenger seat, his coat zipped to his chin, watching the city fading behind us.
"You're nervous," he observed.
"A little."
"More than a little. Your knuckles are white."
I loosened my grip on the steering wheel. "There are things I need to tell you that might change how you see me."
"You said that before." His voice was gentle. "And I told you I'm not going anywhere."
"You might want to. After."
"Taz." He reached over and put his hand on my thigh, and the warmth of it cut through the cold like a blade through ice. "Whatever this is, we'll handle it. Together. That's what we said."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The turnoff was coming up—a fire road that led to the ridge, narrow and unpaved and rarely used this time of year. I signaled and began the turn.
That’s when I saw the car.
A flash of blue in my rearview mirror.
Too close. Too fast.
The sedan tore around the bend behind us, engine roaring as it accelerated straight up our lane like the driver had something to prove. For half a second I thought he was just an idiot trying to pass on a blind curve.
Then he didn’t pull back.
“What the—”
The blue sedan surged up on my left, crossing the center line and sliding alongside us so fast the rush of air rocked my truck. He was close enough that I could see the glare of the sun on his windshield, the dark shape of the driver behind it.
And he didn’t back off.
I wrenched the wheel right, gravel spraying as my tires bit into the shoulder.
The sedan stayed with us.
Matching my speed.
Door to door.
For one sickening second, I thought we were going over.
The driver jerked his wheel toward us, and the sedan’s fender kissed my driver’s side door with a shriek of metal that sent vibrations through the entire frame.
Cinder grabbed the dashboard. “Taz—”
I braked hard, trying to drop behind him, but the driver anticipated it. The sedan slowed too, trapping us against the narrow shoulder where the road dropped away into a ravine thick with pines.
My headlights caught the guardrail—or what was left of it. Rusted. Buckled from some previous impact. Barely a suggestion of safety between us and the drop.