Anne Bronson pressed her foot on the gas pedal, trying to
ignore the little red light on the dashboard—the one
highlighting the E on her gas gauge. She willed the rental
moving truck to make it up the next hill, hunching over the
steering wheel to help with the climb. The truck leaned into
the steepest part of the incline, its headlights
illuminating the crest just as the engine began coughing and
sputtering in earnest. No good gas-guzzling piece of crap.
Anne directed the truck to the side of the road. There
should have been plenty of fuel to get to the house.
If she hadn’t already maxed out her credit card, she would
have gladly paid professionals to move her from New York to
Maine. But here she was, driving her own belongings north,
and out of gas. Her stomach knotted even tighter. Is this
the way a NASCAR driver feels when he runs out of gas on the
final lap? Anne’s race was bigger. She had an inheritance at
stake. Eighteen minutes till midnight. Damn.
Hauling her purse behind her, she climbed out of the truck.
She kicked a tire and let out a half-hearted scream at the
damage her instinctive motion caused her black leather
Manolo Blahniks. Tapping her fingernails against her teeth,
she peered up and down the dark road. No headlights. No
life. No sound.
She fished into her purse for her cell phone and stared at
it. No signal either here in Backwater Maine, of course.
With a deep sigh, she wrestled with her old suitcase with
its wonky wheel and strapped her oversized purse across her
body as she began to climb the rest of the way up the
incline. Two miles to the house. She had eighteen minutes to
get there. In six-inch heels.
