My phone’s vibrating like crazy in the car seat beside me, but it’s just Dad. Fuck him. I ignore it, letting him leave his messages to rant. He wouldn’t understand and it’d just enrage him more if I answered and told him what I’m doing.

The drive to Stella’s, which normally takes just over thirty minutes most nights, takes almost four hours, putting me more and more on edge with the need to see Maddie and apologize, plead, grovel, whatever it takes. It’s just after midnight by the time I pull into the parking lot. I slam the car in park and all but run in. “Maddie!”

Tiffany, who’s working a mop across the floor, looks up. “You.” There’s enough venom in her voice that I know Madison has told her everything.

“Where’s Madison?” I ask, trying to choke down the panic rising in my throat. “I . . . I need to talk to her.”

“She’s had enough of creepy fucking exes tonight,” Tiffany says, turning back to her mopping. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Tiffany, please. I love her. I need to at least apologize to her,” I reply softly. Tiff doesn’t even turn around, and my chin drops in defeat as I run my fingers through my hair, searching my mind for something, anything I can say.

“You look like shit.” Tiff says, and I look up to find her watching me curiously.

“She’s everything,” I say simply, but then try to explain the depth of my madness. “I had a huge victory at work today, a project I worked my ass off on for months, but when everyone was celebrating, I felt . . . empty. I don’t even fucking care anymore. None of it matters without her. I just want Madison, not under my thumb but right beside me. My strong, beautiful Maddie who doesn’t do a damn thing I expect and couldn’t care less about my last name.” My eyes roll up to the ceiling as I fight the tears threatening to spill. Dammit, I’m a fucking monster of a man in a business suit. I’m not gonna cry like a pansy bitch, but it’s close, so close.

She studies me for a minute, weighing the truth of my words, which feels like the most severe judgment I’ve ever received. She’s deciding whether I’m worthy of even begging for forgiveness from Madison herself. Finally, she sighs. “She just took off. Said she was heading home. Her ex came by tonight, rattled her pretty bad.”

The fear jumps in my throat again, and I nod, turning and running out the door as I yell over my shoulder, “Thanks, Tiffany.” I put every bit of horsepower I can coax from the engine to work as I lay a streak of rubber on the pavement, rocketing out of the parking lot to head toward Madison’s apartment. The streets are eerily deserted now, and as I push my car faster, fear rises along with the bile in my gut. Something’s wrong. I don’t know how I know, but centuries of primal instincts embedded in our modern minds make me certain of it.

I take the most direct path, but when I pull up to her apartment, there’s nobody there and I don’t pass Madison’s car the whole trip. Slamming my car in reverse, I drive back toward Stella’s, trying to keep my eyes open along the dark roadways, looking for any sign of her or of her car. I roll the windows down, wanting my every sense to track her, needing desperately to find her and barely refraining from screaming my fear into the quiet of the night.

I’m near the warehouse district when I hear it, the throaty, rumbling growl of an old-school engine, revving like an angry demon. Stopping, I stick my head out the window, trying to determine where it’s coming from, panic gripping me as something tells me that this is what I’m looking for.

But the buildings around me don’t help. All they do is bounce the sound around the concrete and steel surfaces. Driving to the next intersection, I hear it again, followed by the sound of crunching metal.

I smash the gas pedal to the floor and turn. I see them in a block, the all-black old-school muscle car and the beat-up Toyota, looking almost miniscule as the black car closes in again. Madison tries to whip the car around a curve and the muscle car surges forward, hitting the back bumper.

“NO!” I yell as Madison loses control, a tire popping, and suddenly, she’s airborne, flipping over as it goes off the road. My heart freezes, and I slam on my brakes, hoping that I’m not too late.

Darkness.

The pungent smell of gasoline.

I can smell something . . . burning? What the hell’s burning? Wait . . . it’s me. Something’s hot, pressing against my leg. I struggle, but my belt’s locked and I’m trapped.

As the burning gets hotter, I scream and flail, fighting desperately to release the belt and get free. Smoke starts to fill the cab, but then I feel hard, strong hands grab me by the shoulders, and I have a flash of relief that someone is helping me get out of the burning car. I hear the snick of a knife snapping open, and a chill races through me. I remember that sound.

Rich . . . he always carried a butterfly knife, and I remember that sound distinctly. He was proud of it, always eager to show it off.

I try to struggle, but the burning and the fact that I still can’t see stops me from doing anything but getting in my own way. Rich clamps his hands tighter and yanks me out of the car.

The first clean breath of cool night air rushes into my lungs like a sweet gift. The next thought, though, is sheer terror as I look up and see Rich staring down at me, an evil grin on his face. “You’ve brought this on yourself, my Maddie.” His voice is eerily calm, in stark contrast to the panic racing through my body. I’ve moved from one danger, being trapped in a burning car, to another, alone with Rich in the dark parking lot of an abandoned warehouse.

“Rich,” I rasp, trying to crawl away, but my legs aren’t responding right, dragging numbly behind me as my palms grind into the rough concrete. He grabs a handful of my hair, and I slap at his arms, yelling out, but he ignores me as he hauls me up. My legs barely hold weight, and I lean drunkenly against him in a fight to not crash back to the hard ground.

“You’re mine,” he says, dragging me toward his car. “Now get in.”

“No,” I argue, trying to claw at his hand. He ignores my fingernails and grabs my throat, cutting off my air.

Suddenly, I realize something. This time, it’s not an ass slap that got a little too rough or a pinch that was a little too sharp. This isn’t even like the last time, where he did real damage to my wrists from his punishing grip.

No. This time, it’s not gonna be a little bruise to my body or my ego. This time, I’m going to die.

The thought grips me in a panic, granting a sudden burst of strength to fight back, fight for my life. I kick my feet, aiming for his legs, his groin, and push and pull on his hands, trying to loosen his hold. But my head is spinning from the lack of oxygen, and Rich is so much stronger than me.

The darkness closes in, my eyes locking on his victorious grin, full of ugly promises. My last thought is that I hope whatever he does, I won’t feel it.