A Wink at Midnight

By Sandra Dorsett

It's Saturday, August 30, 1991 on a lonely mountain road in Western Maryland, and Angela Madigan has run over and killed a man. If her rich husband discovers why she was up there, and what she was doing in the little cabin by the river, she will lose everything. The choice she makes on this dark night will forever change her life and propel her into a new and frightening existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Dorsett
• Release date: Nov 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465999955

Sandra Dorsett

I was born in Northern California and spent most of my growing up years in Los Angeles. My first husband and I moved to Houston, Texas with our two young sons in the early 1970's. I was widowed in 2004 after my first husband's long and courageous battle with lung cancer. I am now remarried and my wonderful husband, Steve, and I live on a little farm in Southeast Texas. I began writing when I was just a little girl. My little sisters were my first critics, snuggling beside me at bedtime while I read my newest work to them. A Wink at Midnight is my first novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

She stood gazing at the quiet street below from the second story window of her posh Cumberland office. An early morning rain left the afternoon dry and starched flat by a sizzling August sun. Angela Madigan’s mood matched the day perfectly.

When the intercom buzzed Angela walked to her desk, a cumbersome thing she’d purchased at an antique show three years ago, and picked up her phone. Yes, Kimberly, she replied.

Your husband’s on line one, ma’am.

Thanks. Angela settled into her massive chair and pressed line one, kicking away from her desk to face the window. How’s the weather in Miami?

Humid. Did you get your car to the shop?

I did.

And …

She moved her chair around and ran her hand smoothly over the desk top. They’re super busy. Frank Mayon said he’d try to get to it today, but with the holiday on Monday I’m not holding my breath.

So, you’re driving my Mustang.

She began to massage her temple, a headache was coming. Yes, Thomas. I’m driving your Mustang. She could tell he'd had his customary in-flight drinks.

Why didn’t you get a rental?

I didn’t see the need. I promise to take extra special care of your precious Mustang.

No gallivanting around, okay Angela?

She agreed and abruptly ended the conversation. Her brow crinkled. She wished she’d included a mild term of endearment – something noncommittal like: be careful, or hurry home.

She’d offered him breakfast that morning, but he'd said he didn’t have time. It was just as well; she wasn’t much of a cook. He’d given her a peck on the cheek when the taxi honked and Thomas hurried off with his bag. She remembered his lips were dry and hard. She remembered she had to ask for the kiss.

She swiveled her chair slowly around to face the beveled mirror hanging on the wall beside her bookshelf. She fluffed her long auburn hair, two weeks past needing a trim and a touch of color. Gravity was already at work on her face and from this distance the tiny lines around her eyes were not so noticeable, but she knew they were there. It was probably about time for the knife.

Kimberly buzzed again. I have Sarah Baker on the line, ma’am.

Put her through, Kimberly. Angela sighed and connected with line two. Sarah, where are you? We have a four o clock. She glanced at her watch. You’re six minutes late.

I’m not coming, Dr. Madigan.

This is your second cancellation, Sarah. The DA isn’t going to like it.

I can’t help it. I’ve got the flu, or something.

You don’t sound sick.

I’m sick …I’m sicker than a frigging dog.

Have you seen a doctor? When there was no response, Angela repeated, Sarah, have you seen a doctor?

No.

I must warn you, Stratton’s office may revoke the court order without a doctor’s statement. You know what that means. Don’t you, Sarah?

Sarah moaned. Alright, I’ll get a frigging doctor’s statement.

I’ll see you next Friday at four, then?

Sarah mumbled and hung up. Angela opened her bottom drawer and pulled two aspirin from her purse and chased them with cold coffee. She found it peculiar how big shot millionaires have a way with the law when it comes to their precious daughters.

Angela wondered, and not for the first time, who Mr. Baker had strong-armed to insure his daughter was assigned psych counseling for anger management instead of jail time for disturbing the peace and resisting arrest – all courtesy of the Maryland taxpayers.

Sarah’s file lay open on Angela’s desk. It included a graphic police video where Sarah used explosive profanity and kept flipping the camera off. Watching the video anyone would think Sarah was drunk or on drugs, but her toxicology came back clean; which gave credibility to the defense attorney’s plea for temporary insanity.

It hadn’t taken Angela more than an hour to evaluate and categorize Sarah Baker as a spoiled rotten brat. But court appointees were easy money. Angela scratched a notation in Sarah’s file and locked it away in the cabinet.

Angela buzzed Kimberly. Can you come in here a moment?

Kimberly opened the adjoining reception room door and stepped into Angela's office. Yes, ma’am? she said.

Sarah Baker’s not coming. You can go.

Splendid! Kimberly beamed.

So, what are your plans for the holiday?

I’m catching up on housework and repainting the den.

Kimberly, go off to the lake and get sunburned. It’s Labor Day, for Christ’s sake.

Kimberly laughed. Have a great holiday; I’ll see you on Tuesday. She retrieved her purse and was gone in a flash.

Angela turned her coffee machine off and rinsed the pot, emptied the filter and tidied the cubbyhole where she kept her supplies. The last batch of coffee had soured her stomach and made her jittery.

She gathered her things and was just past Kimberly’s desk when the phone began to ring. Angela charged it and mumbled.

Angela?

For a moment she couldn’t speak. And then a twinge of excitement formed in her belly. He called her name again. Hey, Rob, Angela finally replied.

What are you up to today?

I…ah, Angela stammered. I’m going home early.

What are your plans for the week end?

She almost blurted out that Thomas was away for a medical conference, but she didn’t. No big plans. She finally replied.

I was just thinking … I’ve got a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge … and something bubbling on the stove. I thought you might come keep me company.

Rob Jackson was charming, succulent and as dangerous as a coiled rattler. She should’ve broken things off with him weeks ago. She opened her mouth to decline his offer when she found herself saying, instead: Okay, I need directions to your place.

He asked her if she had a pen. She pulled a pencil from Kimberly’s dispenser. Yes, she said and began to write.

Seconds after she hung up with Rob the phone began to ring again. She watched it, waiting for it to quit; the service wouldn’t be on until five. After seven rings, Angela snatched the phone up. Dr. Madigan, she muttered.

Doctor, this is Henderson over at Mercy. We have Sally Jensen in triage. She’s overdosed.

Jesus Christ. Would she ever get out of this office? What’s her status?

They’re pumping her stomach now, Dr. Madigan. She’s unconscious.

So she’s what…critical, guarded?

I’m not sure, Dr. Madigan.

Who’s on tonight?

Dr. Rutherford.

Good. I’m sure Sally’s grandmother’s there, right? A tall, skinny lady with coal black hair?

Yes, ma’am, she came in with the ambulance. She asked me to call you.

What exactly does Mrs. Jensen expect me to do?

I’m not sure, Dr. Madigan. The poor woman’s a mess. She just wanted me to call you. I don’t know why.

Angela sighed. There’s absolutely nothing I can do tonight. Be a pet and tell Mrs. Jensen you couldn’t reach me. I’ll check in on Sally tomorrow.

Before Nurse Henderson could protest, Angela hung up the phone and sprinted through the door, locked the office and escaped to the elevator just across the hall and pressed the down button.

While she waited for the elevator Angela thought of a romantic Florida sunset. She should abandon her crazy plans with Rob and catch a flight to Miami instead. She and Thomas could cuddle together with expensive food and wine and rekindle the fire that had gone from their marriage.

Who was she kidding? Thomas was probably in a ritzy Miami hotel bar curled up with a Bloody Mary. He probably wouldn’t even call to say goodnight. After a while he’d stumble to his room and fall into a drunken sleep. He’d snore and roll and mumble throughout the night. If she were there beside him he’d thrash around and smack her in the face with his elbow.

When the elevator door swished open Angela hoped Thomas would poke himself in the eye with the celery sticking up from his drink.

The parking garage for the Cumberland Bank building was dark and nearly deserted. Angela’s heels click-clacked a snappy echo as she hurried to her parking space on level one where Thomas’s Mustang stuck out like a sore thumb. Angela pinched the black alarm button and the old, white bitch’s doors unlocked.

Inside, the car reeked of Thomas, an odd mix of Vicks cough drops and Old Spice aftershave. The car, like Thomas, was immaculate and she wiped her feet before she climbed in.

She settled into the black leather seat and searched through her enormous purse until she found the notepad with the directions Rob had given her. They were pensive and scratchy at best. She shook her head; pretty bad when you can’t read your own writing.

Angela pulled a cigarette from the red box and saw five smokes left when she peeked inside. For three weeks now she’d kept it under a pack a day, which was easy with the non-smoking ordinance city council imposed on pubic buildings. Frigging non-smokers were heartless. She should save the cigarette for later. Besides, Thomas had strictly forbidden her to smoke in his car. Frowning, she lit the cigarette anyway and savored it like stolen fruit.

As she expected, the interstate was bumper to bumper with people heading out for river rafting or rock climbing or a long, lazy weekend at Deep Creek Lake; Sarah Baker among them – no doubt.

Labor Day was the last summer hurrah before winter rolled over the Appalachians and plowed into the Old Line State.

Following the notes, she turned off on Bitter Ridge Road and crossed into Garrett County. After State Highway 36 it was all landmarks and unpaved roads. She passed sparse properties with ancient homes, high barns, silos and retention ponds. Horses grazed on blankets of grass that would be covered with frost by November. Cows snacked on round hay bales while their young cantered and butted heads with other calves. Civilization fell away by the mile as she drove up and over the spine of the Potomac Highlands.

The world she passed was an artist’s smudged pallet of fading summer hues. In another month or so there wouldn’t be anything green left. Fall would come brilliant gold and red and eventually that would fade, too. After autumn winter would bleach the hills frigid white and the long, cold season would stretch well into spring. It wasn’t uncommon to see snow at Easter in Western Maryland. It was in the deepest, deadest part of winter that Angela missed Southern California the most.

She passed the little white church and found the rickety covered bridge that crossed over the Savage River. She drove some miles along the river until she came to railroad tracks. She took the first hard right after the tracks and followed the steep ridge where Rob’s cabin was burrowed in the forest like a cottage from a fairy tale.

His jeep was parked in the gravel drive and she pulled up next to it and cut the Mustang’s engine. She’d put the convertible top down and all around her the smell was like her mother’s old cedar chest.

Rob had no close neighbors and all was quiet, except for the night birds and the crickets flexing their bows for the concert. At the door, she smelled simmering garlic and onions.

She softly tapped three times on the rickety door and Rob let her in. He was wearing jockey shorts, a frilly bib-apron and nothing else.

He ran a road crew for Garrett County and Rob’s skin was like polished bronze, except for the pink flesh around his eyes where he wore his shades. In another fifteen years his skin would be as tough as the seasoned leather of an old saddle.

As always, she was a little nervous and fidgety when he pulled her into his arms. He seemed to like that.

I know what you need. He walked to the fridge, removed a bottle of Zinfandel and corked it open. He pulled two chilled glasses from the freezer and poured them full.

Angela took the drink he offered and sipped it. The wine was cool and delicious. Immediately, she began to relax. She sat on the couch and slipped her heels off.

Rob went to her. Poor baby, he murmured, taking her feet and gently worked them with his strong hands.

She stiffened ever so slightly. Your cabin is lovely, Rob.

Don’t be nervous, he cooed. His hands rose to her ankles, sliding up her legs. He whispered her name and called her beautiful. Take these off, he muttered, huskily, tugging at her pantyhose.

She lifted her bottom and pulled the nylons over her hips and tossed them away. Rob’s hands slowly worked her thighs, kneading them like a suckling kitten. Then he went to the middle of her where his fingers probed and explored. She became instantly wet. Inhibitions disappeared as she wrapped herself around him, buried her face into his dark, wavy hair and inhaled the sweet scent of baby oil.

Rob took her wine, placed the glass on the floor and kissed her in one smooth, flawless motion. He slipped his hands under her blouse and expertly unsnapped her bra. Then, one by one, he undid the pearl buttons of her silk blouse.

Leaning back, he smiled, and then traced her lips with his finger, letting it drop to her chin where he lingered, making tiny circles. He drew a line over her throat to her chest where he took a firm nipple between his fingers and worked it until she moaned. Angela arched her back and melted into him.

He pulled her lace panties off and slipped his finger inside her. She groaned as he gently pushed her up and over the rim of her orgasm. He coaxed her around and lifted her skirt over the gentle slope of her hips.

She clutched the cushion as he guided himself into her. He was big and hard as a rock. She screamed out with his first thrust and lifted to meet him as he rode her down. A battery of orgasms rocked her before Rob whispered her name and exploded inside her.

Later, he poured her another glass of wine and rolled a joint. He didn’t bother to offer her a toke. She was about as straight as an arrow when it came to drugs.

She willed herself not to think of Thomas, probably nursing his third or fourth drink by now. She refused to worry about him falling in his hotel room and gashing his head open. She didn’t even know where he was staying. Maybe his service would know.

As she and Rob nestled on the floor in front of the stone fireplace, she took the gingham fabric of his apron between her fingers, wondering why a single man would have such a thing.

You look like a drag queen. What are you, a cross-dresser?

Laughing, he stood and went to the old, blue polished range and stirred something dark and thick simmering in a black Dutch oven. Are you hungry?

A little, she replied.

She helped herself to more wine. She’d skipped lunch and the wine was making her giddy. While he tended the food, Angela dressed. She wanted badly to hear Thomas’s voice and to know that he wasn’t laying on a cold bathroom floor bleeding to death.

What are you doing?

I’m dressing.

Why?

I’m chilly.

She slipped on her heels, filled her glass again and then settled into a large tan recliner that was far more comfortable than stylish. Somehow it seemed to match the artifacts scattered about; a dented oil can, a spittoon, the shell of a fine old A.J. Aubrey shot gun hung over the stone fireplace where candlelight twinkled in the hearth. And deer antlers that might have once belonged to local inabilities were now hat and coat racks. The wood floor was scuffed and faded with age and the pine walls were shiny and soft. Except for the bathroom, the cabin was one big room. The whole place, including the wrap-around porch, could fit nicely inside Angela’s garage.

He beckoned her to the small dining table that was set for two with good, Enoch Wedgewood and crystal goblets. Fine, polished silver sat atop eyelet napkins. As a centerpiece, he’d collected wild flowers, ferns and cattails from the spring and stuck them into a large ceramic vase. She felt a stab of guilt to know the trouble he’d gone to in order to impress her.

This is lovely, Rob. But I really should go.

Sit down and have something to eat first.

She sat in the chair he offered, snatched the napkin and folded it over her lap. The only lights in the cabin came from candles. Rob put on a Righteous Brothers Greatest Hits tape and served them each helpings of steamed rice and covered it with thick chunks of gooey meat directly from the Dutch oven with a large wooden spoon, black with age. He placed the large pot in the center of the table, next to the vase.

I know you women like to eat salads, but I made this special for you.

She frowned. You were pretty sure I’d come, then?

He answered her with a grin.

You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. I rarely eat dinner.

That’s not healthy, Angela.

Neither is a tan … ever hear of skin cancer? She pointed her fork at the black Dutch oven. That’s got to be the ugliest pot I’ve ever seen in my life.

It was my mother’s.

Angela shrugged her shoulders. My apologies, but it’s still ugly.

When he reached to switch on the table lamp, Angela saw that his jaw was set and the sparkle had gone from his eyes. What’s wrong, Angela?

Good Lord. Why are you still wearing that stupid apron? I suppose that was your mother’s, too. You look ridiculous.

Rob stood, cursing under his breath, and yanked the apron off as he disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later he reemerged, wearing a gray terry robe tied securely at his waist. Better?

She shrugged, sampling the food. What is this stuff?

Now if you say anything bad about my mother’s City Chicken I might just have to hurt you.

It doesn’t taste anything like chicken.

That’s because it’s pork.

I detest pork.

Abruptly, Rob reached across the table for her plate. He dumped her food into the pot, along with his own, and took it away. On his way back to the table, he slapped the stop button on the tape player. Ebb Tide was choked off in the second bar.

Why’d you come here, Angela? His hands began working the table, like a base drummer warming up.

You invited me, remember? She stood and went to the couch, grabbed her purse and searched inside for her keys.

Oh, so now you’re leaving?

I shouldn’t have come in the first place.

Don’t go... I’m sorry. I want you to spend the night?

I can’t.

I know Thomas is out of town.

She glared at him. How could you possibly know that?

I called his office.

It was a long time before she trusted her voice. I can’t do this anymore, she finally said.

He came to her, but he didn’t touch her. It’s dark out, Angela. You know you can’t find your way out of a paper bag, you’ll get lost. Wait until morning. I promise I won’t bother you. He reached for her, unless you want me to.

Don’t touch me! She turned her back to him and rocked gently back and forth. We can’t see each other any more, Rob.

Angela…

She turned to face him. That makes my skin crawl, the way you say my name. His face clouded with anger and for the fraction of a second she was afraid of him. I mean it, she said, more softly. We’re finished, Rob.

Why?

For God’s sake, look at us, Rob. I’m nearly twice your age. I’m married. It’s way too risky.

A smile played with his lips as his eyes devoured her. A twenty year old would wish for that body. She shook her head, pushed the door open and stepped onto the wood porch. Have fun getting lost, he called.

Angela stumbled over the steps, ran to the Mustang and hopped in. She cranked the engine and drove away in a cloud of dust and pebbles and leaves. From the rearview mirror, she saw him retreat into the cabin like a trapdoor spider.

The Mustang’s headlights reflected the numbers perfectly. Shit, Angela hissed.

She’d climbed another hundred feet since the last marker. Outside, the fog was up and a dark forest zipped by and hugged the gravel road, creating a misty path for the old car to follow.

A killer headache thumped at her temples. He should’ve served bread and cheese with the wine. She thought of the aspirin in her purse, but dry swallowing a pill was a feat she’d never mastered.

Angela shifted hard into third gear, urging the old bitch on. It didn’t like the climb and bogged at the throttle, but Angela pushed it anyway. She wished the Mustang were a live thing, so she could get out and beat it.

She had to turn around, but the mountain roads were narrow. She was searching for an incline wide enough for the old tank to make a clean turn, but there weren’t any she’d trust her life to, not with the Potomac River, a gurgling snake some three hundred feet below.

It never ceased to amaze her, how, after all these years the magnificence of Western Maryland could still overwhelm her. It was like a land time had forgotten. As Angela spiraled up the mountain she felt like the last living person on earth.

She’d given up trying to find her way home. Now she’d settle for an old farmhouse and beg for directions to a paved road with a highway sign. She’d even swallow her pride, if she could find her way back to Rob’s cabin.

After a while she came to a large white post with mill 100 feet stenciled on it. While she wasn’t exactly sure where she was, she knew the mill was on Highway 1-35. The highway zigzagged over the mountain’s backbone that Rob’s dozer crew kept plowed and salted from late November through April as a primary winter escape route when the blizzards came. 1-35 would lead her miles over the ridge to the West Virginia side of the Potomac River, where she’d eventually spill out onto a good four-lane highway with streetlights. But the Mustang would be running on fumes long before then.

If she was going to turn around, the mill was her best bet.

She crept along in first gear, peering over the steering wheel like an old lady looking for a parking space. Finally, with squinted eyes, she saw the entrance to the mill and her heart sank. A chain big enough for a ship’s anchor blocked the road.

Damnit, she whispered.

She sat for long moments, wasting precious gas while the Mustang idled in the night like a giant purring cat. There wasn’t much play between the chain and the dark road. She could easily get stuck. Or worse, she could slip over the cliff and tumble down the mountain. The big car was like driving a tractor.

Finally, deciding to test her luck, she slipped into gear and inched the car forward, to the chain barrier, tapped the brake and then wrestled with reverse. She cursed the stick.

She pushed the car slowly, into first gear and out of reverse four times each, scraping the hood against the chain. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard until Angela and the big car eventually came to an understanding.

The rusty chain had surely scratched the Mustang’s hood. Already, she was rehearsing a plausible excuse for the damage, which Thomas would probably not believe anyway. Angela sighed and decided to worry about that later.

She patted the dash and gunned the engine, rewarding the Mustang. Angela supposed the old bitch wasn’t such a wicked lady after all.

At last she found her way back to Highway 36 and she began searching for her landmarks. The old white church would be hard to spot in the dark. The small wood-frame building stood some fifty feet off the meandering road. On the way up Angela would not have seen it, except for Rob’s directions.

As far as Angela Madigan was concerned, Garrett County and the whole of Maryland could keep their wood-covered bridges. She hated them. It hadn’t been pleasant driving through that dark, spooky bridge the first time. The late afternoon had still offered a summer glow in the sky. It would be worse now, with a last quarter moon mocking her like a cheesy grin in the black night.

The dark mouth of the bridge would swallow her inch by inch until there would be nothing but cool darkness all around and the sound of rubber testing wood.

Angela suffered no great disappointment when she couldn’t find her landmarks. They seemed to have been mysteriously sucked away. She supposed it was vaguely possible that she’d made one big circle around the cabin. Occasionally, even the old timers got lost in these mountains.

She frantically searched for a sign that might tell her where she was. But there was nothing except mile markers and squiggly yellow signs that stretched over endless miles of hills and trees and deserted mountain roads.

She managed to find good hardtop and now she was coasting along at a pretty good clip. She pushed the car down the mountain in a fevered rush, searching for lights in the valley that might lead to a gas station.

The radio was set to an oldies station and now Johnny Rivers’ sexy voice filled the car up with sweet nostalgia. "Shuby-do-ah…" he sang, ‘and baby it’s hard to find nice things… on the poor side of town."

The song brought back her teenage years of strawberry lip gloss, drive-in movies with metal speakers and city bus rides down Cherry Avenue to Long Beach and the Pike, an amusement park where she and her girlfriends picked up sailors on shore leave from the naval base.

She fumbled through her purse until she found the red box of Marlboros and pulled out number sixteen. It had taken her long months to wean down from three packs a day. Some days were harder than others to keep it under a pack. This day had been one of the hard ones. Maybe there’d be cigarettes at the gas station she was searching for.

Angela lit the cigarette and pulled a long drag into her lungs and blew smoke into the dark night. When she spotted the rickety old bridge, Angela crushed her cigarette out and tossed it. When she passed through to the other side, she’d be close enough to Rob’s cabin to smell his mother’s rotten City Chicken.

Twenty minutes later Angela was cursing herself for a fool. Old wooden bridges were as much a part of the landscape in the Potomac Highlands as the hills and tress were.

She refused to go back into the bridge. The shaky edge of panic kept her tightly at the wheel as she gaped through the window. A whole swarm of butterflies were at work in her belly. Her eyes darted again and again at the gas gauge where it hovered at the quarter mark.

Above her the moon was a thin, silver wedge suspended in black velvet and spilled glitter. She was sorry now that she’d put the Mustang’s top down. Driving up, in the glow of a summer afternoon, she’d tied a silk scarf around her head, letting the wind blow in her face and felt like Grace Kelly. Now all she felt was foolish and morbidly exposed, but dared not stop to put the top up.

Suddenly James Brown’s scratchy voice exploded from the quad speakers and kicked Angela’s last nerve around like a schoolyard bully. Shut the fuck up! Angela screamed, and switched the radio off.

The hair on the back of her neck was doing the hula and the quiet made it worse. Angela clicked the radio back on and searched for another station. She needed something soothing and soft; classical or maybe jazz. Even a boring farm report or an old geezer selling wart remedies would be better than the silence.

As she followed a gentle curve in the road, Angela began rummaging through Thomas’ tape collection when something dropped out of the darkness and bounced from the hood of the Mustang with enough force to smash the windshield. A severe, electric shock traveled the length of her body and zapped her in the head.

Instinctively, she slammed on the brakes and knew immediately it was the wrong thing to do. She was sliding out of control seconds later.

Having a nodding acquaintance with driving on icy roads, Angela slipped into a strange kind of autopilot. She eased off the brake and cut the wheel to the left, into the slide, knowing it was already too late. The Mustang’s headlights glared into the black night and the sliding went on and on. She’d be off the pavement soon, where an old tree was waiting to give her a little kiss before she slid over the edge and plummeted down the mountain. She began to scream and knew it would be the last sounds she ever made.

Angela envisioned her death with morbid clarity. She prayed to die before she hit the water; drowning had been a phobia for as long as she could remember. Maybe she’d almost die in the crash after sustaining broken ribs, a concussion or a slashed arterial vein and finish up later. She wondered how long it would take to die like that. Afterward, the fish would come and nibble on her and then later the birds. Hikers would find her bones sometime next spring, unless wolves carried pieces of her away.

Crying out in raw terror, Angela went back to the brakes. She was on them in earnest now and braced herself so tightly she’d need the heating pad for a solid week. The Mustang’s tires screamed, finally taking hold of the road and it gave Angela the edge she needed to catch and strangle her panic.

She eased off the brakes, pumping them gently instead and cut the wheel where it wanted to go until the car finally rolled to a stop just short of a break in the tree line. Dizzy and nauseous, she lurched forward and hugged the steering wheel, gulping air.

The car stalled. For long moments there was nothing but the thudding of her heart and a soft ticking from the hood, like there might be a small mouse inside tapping to be let out.

She leaned back and caught a smoky glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. The person she saw was a stranger. Angela thought to look in the back seat to see if an alien had beamed aboard, but that would’ve been too