by Lisa Jackson
The girl hesitated. Lucky could practically feel when she made the decision that Letton was “with” their team.
Before the girl could take another step forward Lucky smashed her foot down on the accelerator and jammed the horn with her fist. The car leapt forward like a runner at the gate. The girl jumped back, startled. Edward Letton forgot himself and lurched for the girl, but she’d automatically moved out of range of the silver car shooting down on them, running for the safety of the soccer fields. Letton glanced up darkly, his plan foiled, glaring murderously at Lucky. His mouth open to…what? Berate her for unsafe driving? He looked mad enough to kill.
She slammed into him at thirty and climbing. Threw him skyward. Threw herself forward. The steering wheel jumped from her hands. The sedan’s grill grazed the back bumper of the van. Someone screamed. She grabbed the wheel hard, turning, both arms straining, sensing calamity. Then she spun past the van, tires squealing. Letton’s flying body thunked off the roof of her car and bounced onto the asphalt, an acrobat without a net. He lay still.
In her rearview mirror Lucky stared hard at Letton’s body. She drove away with controlled speed, slowing through a tangle of neighborhoods, weaving her way, heart slamming hot and fast in her chest, zigzagging toward Highway 26. She had to get this car out of the area and fast.
It was only when she was safely away, heading west, keeping up with fast-moving traffic, that she saw the blood on her steering wheel.
A glance in the rearview. Her face was covered with blood. The impact had smacked her face into the steering wheel. Her left eye was closing. She hadn’t even noticed.
There was Windex in the back. Rags. Bleach. She would wipe up the evidence, clean herself and the car. All she had to do now was keep the growing pain and swelling under control. Her vision blurred.
She had to get to an off-road near Carl’s Automotive, one of the myriads of turn-outs on this winding highway through the Cascade Mountains. Later tonight she would sneak the car back onto the weed-choked gravel lot and hope that the front grill, lights, and body weren’t too damaged. The vehicle needed to stay undiscovered at the Hunk O’Junk lot for a long time.
She swiped at the blood running down her forehead, blinding her.
Not good. Not good at all.
But she was lucky. She would get away with it. She would…
She just hoped to hell she’d killed him.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2009 by Susan Lisa Jackson and Nancy Bush
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ISBN: 1-4201-0938-3
