Page 52 of Run for Her Life
Zoe ignored him. Instead of taking the exit, she cut the wheel again, using the curve of the lot to swing around in a wide, brutal circle. Darren had already committed to following her original trajectory—it was too late to correct.
By the time he realized what she’d done, she was already behind him.
A cold, electric rush snapped through her nerves. She slammed her foot on the gas.
The car surged forward, the gap between them vanishing in an instant. A crunching, gut-punch sound of metal on metal split the air as her bumper connected with his rear. The car in front lurched forward and skidded sideways, crashing into a fence.
Zoe didn’t bother to kill the engine as she jumped out of the car. Her hand hovered over the Glock in her waistband as she marched toward the stalled car. She threw open the door and grabbed the man inside by his collar, dragging him out.
“Hey!” he growled as Zoe dropped him on the ground and pointed a gun at him.
Darren—a face she had forgotten, wearing his typical Hawaiian shirt.
“Why are you following me?” she hissed at him.
He got up, unsteady on his feet. He was mildly disoriented from the crash, but uninjured. He grabbed his head and swayed. “I will sue you!”
She smiled sweetly and then rammed her leg into his shin. He let out a shriek and doubled over, clutching his leg. “Speak up or I’ll put a bullet through your empty head.”
“Storm, what the hell are you doing?” Aiden whispered frantically in her ear but she paid no attention.
Darren looked up at them, frowning and panting. “I have rights, you know.” She sighed impatiently and clicked off the safety of her gun. Darren panicked and raised his hands in the air. “All right, all right. He paid me money to watch you.”
“Who?”
“Viktor.”
Her heart leaped in her throat but her face remained expressionless. Moments ticked by and the sky grew darker and larger. She lowered her gun and leaned into his ear. “Tell Viktor Axenov to come find me or the next time I see you following me, I’ll mail him pieces of you. Got it?”
THIRTY-ONE
Zoe could breathe fire. She didn’t fear anything anymore. Not about threatening Darren, not about being watched by Viktor, and not by Aiden sniffing around.
She didn’t even fear the twisted person responsible for torturing and killing women in Pineview Falls.
“When will Rodney be done with Jackie’s autopsy?” She asked Lisa, who was huddled in front of a computer with Ethan.
“He should have preliminary reports for us by later tonight. We just got through Jackie’s cell phone records.”
“Good, good.” She shifted on her heels and bit her nails. Adrenaline pumped through her like little electric blades plucking her ribs and humming through her veins. Her muscles were coiled tight—ready to be snapped into action. She realized her unusual demeanor was drawing attention. The typical Zoe with a skip in her step and smile on her face was unraveling.
She had messaged Benny again. He finally replied.
B: You never ask for fights this quickly.
Irritation danced on her skin. Why did he care? She messaged him to mind his own business and find something forher. She dreaded what she’d do if he didn’t. Because whatever was building inside her had to come out. Aiden walked into the room, holding a garbage bag. He dumped it on the table, his features drawn tight.
“This is from Jackie’s place?” she asked.
He nodded curtly and put on gloves before delving into the bag. The ride back had been fraught with tension. Aiden had tried to prod further but Zoe had clammed up. He already knew too much. Zoe sat across from him and began pulling out contents from the trash.
“What are we looking for?” she asked with a bounce in her voice.
“Anything related to the massacre.” He didn’t look at her. To her bewilderment, she realized that she really wished he had.
She sifted through receipts, used napkins, lipstick-stained coffee mugs, broken rubber bands, and crushed medicine bags. Aiden had some pieces of paper laid out in front of him—torn and stained. He was deep in thought as he tried to arrange the papers. crumpled paper scraps, torn edges, and half-shredded words spread out in front of them.
He worked methodically, sorting through the discarded pieces, smoothing them out, aligning jagged edges like a puzzle. Every now and then, he’d pause, turning a fragment sideways, testing its fit against another. Ink bled at the seams where words reassembled themselves and incomplete sentences began to take shape.
