Page 43 of Silent Trail

The parking lot itself seemed to have been abandoned by time, its original purpose long forgotten. Weeds pushed their way through the cracks in the concrete, and an old railroad bridge loomed nearby, casting its skeletal shadow over the river below. In the distance, Sheila could hear the faint hum of traffic on the highway—a reminder that life continued on, oblivious to the danger she now faced.

A shiver ran down her spine as she considered the remoteness of this meeting place. It would be the perfect spot for the killer to strike, with no one around to hear her screams or come to her aid. Was that why he had chosen it? Did he intend to kill her here just because she had pretended to admire his gruesome handiwork?

"Stop it, Sheila," she scolded herself, shaking her head. "You're letting your fear get the best of you."

But the gnawing doubt in the pit of her stomach remained, making her question if she had made a monumental mistake in attempting to outsmart a man who was clearly very clever. Her ambition, the same drive that had propelled her to become an Olympic kickboxer and a Division 1 athlete, now felt like a liability.

For all her physical strength and intelligence, Sheila knew she couldn't rely on her fists or wits alone to survive this encounter. She was unarmed, and the killer – if he truly was coming – knew the terrain better than she did.

So why had she put herself in this position?

The sudden buzz of her phone startled Sheila, and she glanced down to see a text from Natalie: Everything alright?

She picked up the phone, her fingers hovering over the screen as she considered what to say. Telling Natalie where she was would only provoke a slew of questions, and almost certainly an instruction to wait for Natalie and Finn to back her up. Sheila couldn't do that, couldn't risk Natalie's safety that way, not after what had already happened.

You have to tell her something, she thought. She'll get worried if you ignore her.

Before she could think of how to respond, however, the sight of approaching headlights caught her attention.

"Damn it," Sheila muttered, dropping her phone onto the passenger seat and shielding her eyes with her arm. The brights were on, making it impossible to discern any details about the vehicle or its driver.

"Is that you?" she whispered, her heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through her veins. The vehicle continued to speed toward her, showing no sign of slowing down. Her instincts screamed at her, urging her to act.

Suddenly realizing what the driver intended to do, Sheila fumbled with her seat belt. Finally, it clicked open, and she flung the car door wide. She lunged out of the vehicle just as the truck slammed into her car with a deafening crash.

Sheila's racing heart pounded in her chest as she lay on the cold asphalt, her skinned knee throbbing mercilessly. The deafening crash of metal on metal still echoed in her ears, and the smell of gasoline filled her nostrils.

She rose on unsteady legs, watching as the large truck circled around like a shark circling a wounded whale. All she could do was watch, since she was unarmed and her only lifeline – her phone – lay trapped in the crumpled remains of the car.

The truck roared as it bore down on her again, its headlights cutting through the darkness like twin knives. Her mind raced, searching for an escape. Hiding behind her car would only prolong the inevitable—she'd be crushed if the killer rammed into it again. No, she needed another plan.

Sheila's gaze darted from the approaching truck to the clump of trees at the edge of the parking lot. Could she make it? They seemed so far away.

You'll never make it, she thought. Long before you get there, he'll run you down.

The truck roared, its engine a beast awakening from hibernation as it hurled toward Sheila. Panic clawed at her insides, but in the midst of her fear, a memory surfaced: Finn's flare gun in the glove box. It was her only chance.

"Sheila, you've got this," she whispered to herself, summoning every ounce of courage she possessed. She dove back into the wreckage of her car, fingers trembling as they fumbled with the jammed glove box. The roar of the truck's engine grew louder, each second an agonizing eternity.

"Come on, come on!" she said, frustration boiling over as the glove box latch refused to budge. Her heart hammered in her chest, threatening to burst free from its cage as the headlights of the truck grew brighter, engulfing the car in their unforgiving glare.

"Please, just open!" Sheila cried out, desperation lacing her voice.

With a final, determined pull, the glove box finally gave way, spilling its contents onto the floor. Her hand shot out, grasping the flare gun tightly, its cold metal a lifeline amidst the chaos. She noticed her phone lying nearby and snatched it up as well, unable to pass up such a crucial lifeline.

Scrambling from the car, Sheila steadied her aim at the oncoming truck, her vision blurred by sweat and tears. The monster of metal and horsepower bore down on her like a predator, closing in for the kill. But Sheila Stone was no prey; she was a fighter.

"Take this, you bastard!" she shouted, squeezing the trigger of the flare gun.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Sheila dove to the side, not wishing to be hit by the wrecked car should the truck plow into it. She landed hard on the buckled asphalt, and she felt dazed for a moment as she lifted her head to regard the truck.

The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled her nostrils as the truck's tires screeched against the asphalt. The flare, a violent dance of orange and red, cast an ominous glow upon the scene. Its brightness was almost blinding, but Sheila couldn't look away from the terrifying spectacle unfolding before her.

With a sickening crunch, the truck veered to the side, smashing headlong into the wrecked car. The impact shook the ground beneath Sheila's feet, jolting her back into awareness.

She waited for a few seconds, watching the truck to see if the driver would pull away or climb out. She could see no movement, however.

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