Room 729_Episode One
Page 2
She pushed the non-functioning mower to the back of the house and pushed it into the garage. Rachel checked her watch. Tom had the name of a guy who sometimes fixed small engine stuff, but the guy wasn’t in the book. Judging by the time, Rachel figured Tom should be in L.A. by now. He was probably in his hotel room, stretched out on the bed, a glass of wine in one hand, the remote in the other, watching a basketball game.
She went inside the house, picked up the phone. She hated to break into his quiet time, but what the hell. He could sleep in a little bit tomorrow. She, however, had work to do. She punched in her husband’s cell phone number.
And hoped nothing else would go wrong.
Chapter Five
I knew where the cops were. It was easy. Every time I wanted to get on the 10, I took a little shortcut from Pico, turning left on Main, then right on a little side street to Interstate 10. But the little side street just happened to go right through the middle of the campus of the Santa Monica Police Department.
But I didn’t take that street. I couldn’t. I jacked the steering wheel to the right, roared down Main toward Venice. If the guy was still after me, and I had a terrifying certainty he was, he would probably try to intercept me at the police station.
I turned off Main, went up a steep incline, then turned onto a quiet street. I spotted a tight parking space between a Toyota Prius and a pickup truck. I parallel parked between the two and shut off the lights.
I sat in the dark, my heart still thundering in my chest, acid churning in my gut. I started to hyperventilate so I cracked the windows and let the cool ocean breeze wash over my face. I took ten deep breaths, sunk down in my seat when a car cruised past. My cell phone sat in my hand.
The police station was just thirty seconds away. I could put the car into gear, pull up to the front door and run inside. Sure, they might throw me in a holding cell or something, but I would be safer there than running around L.A. with some nutcase shooting at me.
Every synapse in my brain was sending bullets of logic, telling me to go the cops. Just fire up the car, drive fast and get inside.
But I couldn’t turn the key.
I felt paralyzed.
Not because of shock, or that I had just seen a dead woman. Or that I felt like I was going to heave up the snack mix I’d eaten on the plane.
No, my inability to drive straight to the police station wasn’t because of frayed nerves over coming face to face with a dead woman.
It was because I knew who she was.
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About the Author
Dan Ames is an international bestselling author and winner of the Independent Book Award for Crime Fiction. His success in bringing back the serial form of fiction was profiled in the national magazine FAST COMPANY.
@AuthorDanAmes
AuthorDanAmes
www.authordanames.com
dan@authordanames.com