opened the door and guided her in, his hand on the small of her back.
She sat on the front bench seat. Inside, it smelled like cigarettes and fast food. Her feet scuffled wrappers and hard things that clunked — some kind of tools? — before finding a place to rest. She heard the cop get in the other side and close the door, felt his weight settle in beside her.
“So are you taking me home?”
“Back to the station. Your dad will meet us there. We need to, um, debrief you.” There was something slightly off about his voice.
NOTHING LIKE A TOY
O
Cheyenne flashed back to a hard voice demanding all her phone numbers. Griffin’s dad had smelled like that.
Roy hadn’t needed to change his appearance. He just changed his voice, pitching it lower. But what he couldn’t change was his smell.
Cheyenne knew Roy was going to drive her to her death.
Shoot her here and he might attract attention. Plus, he would be left with a bloody mess in his car. He must be planning to drive her to the house, all the while chattering about what they would do “back at the station.”
She remembered the mobile he had been using. Maybe she could snatch it and call 9-1-1. Maybe if she was really lucky, he wouldn’t notice that she had it and she could hold it behind her back while she pressed the numbers. She might even buy a second or two before he heard the voice of the operator or noticed what she was doing.
It was hopeless, but what else could she do? If she got out and ran, he would tackle her in a moment and drag her back. Give up on all pretense.
The engine started up. Cheyenne swept her left hand over the seat between them. Her fingers closed over what they found.
Only it wasn’t a phone.
It was a gun.
“Hey!” Roy sounded surprised. Too surprised to keep using his phony voice.
Cheyenne transferred the gun to her right hand. It wasn’t very big. But it felt heavy and real and nothing like a toy. Did it have a safety?
“You make one move, and I’ll shoot you.”
She had wanted to make her voice full of authority, unwavering. Instead it came out high-pitched and shaking.
Roy’s only answer was a laugh.
Something streaked across the small slice of vision Cheyenne still had left. Roy’s hand, trying to grab the gun from her. Her finger tightened on the trigger just as his hand closed around her fist.
The sound of the gun firing was so loud that it sucked all other sounds after it.
And then the silence was broken by Roy’s scream.
“You
How badly was he hurt? Bad enough that he would die? Or not bad enough to keep him from hurting her?
Cheyenne realized she was still holding the gun.
“Get out!” she screamed.
“What?”
“Get out of the car! Or I’ll shoot you again.” She pressed the gun forward until it touched flesh. Wet flesh.
“Okay, okay!”
She heard the door open and Roy scramble out. An “oof” as he fell onto the road. Still holding the gun, Cheyenne leaned forward, found the door handle, and yanked it closed. A second later she snapped down the lock, just before Roy grabbed the handle from the outside. Now that the gun barrel was no longer dimpling his flesh, he was obviously rethinking having left the car. And he wanted back in.
The other door! Cheyenne leaned to her right, found the lock just in time. Her hand was sticky. It must be blood. The passenger door rattled.
“Let me in, Cheyenne.”
“No!”
“Come on, I’m hurt. I need to get to a doctor. Let me in and I’ll drive us to a hospital and let you go.”
Where had she shot him? Cheyenne didn’t know. His arm? His belly? His chest? It seemed quite possible that Roy was telling the truth. Maybe he did need to get to a hospital.
“Cheyenne — I’m going to bleed to death. Please, for the love of God…”
Slowly, she raised her hand.
He must have come back to the other side of the car, because suddenly the driver’s side door began to jiggle, making her jump.
“Let me in, Cheyenne!” His voice was louder and angrier now. “Let me in or you’ll be sorry!”
Or maybe she had just nicked him.
A sudden loud bang, right next to her ear, made her scream.
It happened again. Roy was, Cheyenne realized, hammering the window with a rock. A big rock.
The third time he did it, the thump sounded more muffled. It was followed by a curse and the sound of the rock falling to the ground. He had smashed his own fingers instead of the window.
Cheyenne pressed the tip of the gun up against the glass near where she thought Roy was. She pressed hard to try to keep her hand from shaking. “Stop doing that or I’ll shoot you again!”
“Really?” Roy laughed. “I don’t think so. You’ll miss me by a mile. Or maybe the bullet will ricochet and hit you. So go ahead.” And then he smashed the rock down again.
DRIVING BLIND
As she pressed the nose of the gun against the window, Cheyenne realized Roy was right. Even if the bullet didn’t ricochet — and she wasn’t quite sure how that worked — even if it did go through the window, wouldn’t she still be cut by flying glass? And Roy probably wouldn’t even be hurt. All she would accomplish would be to create a huge gaping hole. And then he could get her.
Frustrated and afraid, Cheyenne started to cry.
The rock banged against the window again, making her jump. Her foot touched the accelerator, and the car engine raced.
She had to do something, but what?
Then she had a sudden memory. Her mom sitting beside her, letting Cheyenne drive around the empty winding roads of a nearby cemetery on a damp Saturday afternoon.
Could she just drive away?
Another bang. It was only a matter of time before the window cracked and then broke.
Okay. She could do this. The engine was still on. Cheyenne turned in the seat and set down the gun. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that it cut into her fingers.
She quickly rehearsed what she remembered. The accelerator was on the right. The brake on the left.
But wait. The car was clearly in park now. And Cheyenne needed it to be in drive. But the one car she had
