She was headed north. Fast. The thin black lines of patched asphalt pounded against her tires as she pushed beyond her normal eight miles an hour over the speed limit. Thump thump thump. The vibrations rumbled through her 1999 Saturn sedan’s suspension and straight into her bones. She checked the rearview mirror almost as often as she scanned the road ahead. It was 6 a.m. Headlights from oncoming commuter traffic blinded her. Every shadowy reflection in the mirror looked like it could be the front grill of a brand new Ford F-150. Dark burgundy with yellow pinstripes. Tan leather interior. His truck. When Cass wasn’t careful, each car on the road morphed into the Ford, and every driver transformed into the six-foot-four frame of Preston Connors, her now very much ex-boyfriend. And she halfway thought he might have the power to send his snarling visage into every vehicle she might pass. There was something about the depth of Preston’s anger that made Cass believe he could, and would, do just about anything.
