The smell of gasoline hit Bailey Monroe before she even saw the car.
She glanced at her cousin in the passenger seat. Ariel was busy scrolling through Instagram, her face lit by her phone, completely unaware of how exhausted Bailey was.
“Can you drive faster?” Ariel said without looking up. “I want to get home and post my party photos before everyone else does.”
Bailey bit back her frustration. She had just finished a 12-hour delivery shift when Aunt Mercy called and ordered her to pick Ariel up from a party in Lake Forest. No “please.” No “thank you.” Just another command.
As she drove, Bailey let herself slip into a familiar fantasy.
One day, she would have her own apartment. Nothing fancy, just a tiny place with sunlight through the windows, a couch that didn’t smell like mildew, and a fridge full of food that belonged to her. And when Aunt Mercy called in the middle of the night demanding something, Bailey would let it ring. Or maybe she’d answer just to say, “Sorry, Aunt Mercy. I’m busy living the life you tried to steal from me.”
That thought made her smile.
Then she saw it.
A black Mercedes S-Class was wrapped around an oak tree like crushed metal. Glass glittered across the road in her headlights. Smoke poured from the hood, and the smell of gasoline hit even harder.
Bailey slammed on the brakes.
“What the hell, Bailey?” Ariel snapped.
But Bailey was staring through the shattered driver’s window. A man was slumped over the steering wheel, motionless, blood running down his face.
“Someone’s in there,” she whispered.
“So call 911 and let’s go,” Ariel said. “This isn’t our problem.”
Bailey turned to look at her. “Someone could be dying.”
“And what does that have to do with us?”
For a second, Bailey just stared at her cousin. This was the same girl Bailey had helped raise, the same girl whose education she was funding with three jobs and almost no sleep. Ariel could be sweet sometimes, thoughtful even, but in moments like this she could be shockingly cold.
“You take the car,” Bailey said, already dialing 911. “Go home.”
“You’re joking.”
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