The Midnight Passenger

The following is a short story written by Shawn Jolley. If you enjoy it, check out other short stories or books to read more.

The Midnight Passenger by Shawn Jolley

The city belonged to the insomniacs and the recently heartbroken. Devin fit into both categories now. He piloted his aging sedan through the flat grid of midnight streets, the interior shrouded in blue from the dash, the outside world reduced to ghostly afterimages each time he passed under a working streetlamp. Everything else was shadow, liquid, impenetrable.

The radio played barely loud enough to suggest the presence of another human voice. The station’s overnight host read out the weather in a tone that implied nobody was listening. Devin kept the dial here because there were no songs, no risk of accidental reminders. The speakers crackled faintly with the cheap compression of an aging car.

His hands stayed at ten and two, knuckles pale in the ethereal dashboard light. There was always a secret tension behind his grip, a leftover, perhaps, from growing up in a house where you needed to be ready for sudden swerves. But that was a long time ago.

At the next red, he thumbed the ride-share app. The night was slow. He’d made only three pickups since his shift started. Last week, he could blame the rain. Tonight, the city just seemed emptied out, as if everyone had gotten the message to shelter elsewhere. His own apartment was only a few blocks from here, two flights up over a closed vape shop, but he had no plans to go back until the sun started crowding out the darkness.

He killed the engine at a drive-thru for a coffee. The cup burned his palm just enough to wake him. He drank it in the parking lot with the window cracked, staring at the glow of the convenience store next door and the uneven silhouettes of shelving inside. A sip. Burned. Bitter.

His phone vibrated. New ride. He pressed accept, then started the car, the engine’s whine momentarily louder than the radio. He took a slow right turn and followed the navigation arrow, streets getting narrower and more residential, every block defined by the vapor glow of a single streetlight and the blank rectangles of drawn curtains.

He tried to remember the last thing Kelly had said to him. Not a grand speech, not a cruel benediction—just a dry observation about the freezer’s ice-maker somehow being like their relationship—functional but cold. The breakup was understated and sad. He’d come home to find her stuff gone, except her mug that still sat in the dish rack, as if she planned on returning for it. She never did. He felt a phantom weight in the passenger seat sometimes, especially on these routes, as if her absence left behind a shape that filled with night air.

The navigation chimed, directing him to the curb outside a gray-brick apartment building. All the exterior lights were out except for a yellowish glow in the entry. He checked the passenger mirror, then the rearview—no movement, no sign of the client. Standard protocol: wait three minutes before calling. He drummed his thumb against the steering wheel.

A figure moved behind the glass, then emerged. Female, early thirties, maybe. A long navy coat, dark hair wound into a loose knot. The way she walked suggested comfort with the late hour, an ease that could be misread as vulnerability. She approached without hesitation and pulled open the front passenger door. Unusual.

“Hi,” she said, sliding into the seat. Her voice was bright and familiar, as if he’d met her at a party once. “Devin, right?”

He nodded. “Um… yes.” There was an awkward pause in which he considered asking her how she knew his name. But, he chickened out at the last second on the chance that he should know her from somewhere. That they had met. Instead, he said, “That’s me.” There must have been something in his expression that tipped her off that he didn’t remember her.

“I’m Amber,” she supplied, settling in. She didn’t fumble for her seatbelt or check her phone. Instead, she tucked her purse between her feet and angled her body toward him, hands folded over her knee. Devin couldn’t piece together whether she had said her name as a reminder or a new introduction.

He studied her face in the dashboard’s reflected glow. High cheekbones, restless blue eyes, lips with a faint glossy sheen. She wore a scent that reminded him of cherry blossoms, the artificial kind that lingered in elevators. It wasn’t bad.

Amber looked around the car with the appraising eye of someone rating it for cleanliness. She ran her finger along the chrome vent, then smiled. “Nice setup. You keep it tidy.”

He shrugged. “Habit, I guess,” then added, “Thank you.”

“Habit or not, it’s considerate. From what I’ve seen, most drivers don’t bother.” She fastened her seatbelt with a practiced snap. “Long night?”

“Not too bad.” He merged back onto the main road, eyes flicking from mirror to mirror. “You headed home?”

She laughed. “No, I just left home. I have a late shift.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask. They drove in silence for a minute.

Amber filled the lull herself. “You always drive nights?”

He glanced over. She was watching him, not the street. “Mostly. It’s quieter.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” She tapped her nails softly against her phone. “I’d go crazy with just the radio and my own thoughts.”

“Sometimes I do,” he said, surprising himself.

Amber grinned. “You get a lot of weirdos at this hour?”

He considered. “Not as many as you’d think. Most people just want to get somewhere and not talk.” In a way, he implied she was the weirdo by admitting this. Though he didn’t mean any harm by saying as much.

She tilted her head, amused. “So which are you—do you want to talk, or get somewhere and not talk?”

“I’m the driver,” Devin said. “Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“I bet you say that to all your passengers.”

He let the corner of his mouth twitch, just a bit. “Only the ones who look like they want to talk.”

She laughed again, a little too loud for the small space. “Careful, Devin. Flattery’s dangerous at midnight.”

Something inside him flickered, and he almost believed in the danger. He kept his eyes on the road. “You said you have a late shift?”

Amber nodded, eyes distant now. “Yeah. Inventory at the bookstore.” She angled her phone so he could see her home screen: a lockscreen image of an elaborate floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “They always do it at night, so we don’t get in the way of customers. It’s a small store.”

He recognized the photo. “Book Haven on 8th?” He said it as a question, as though he didn’t already have the destination pulled up in the ride-share app.

“That’s the one.” She looked at him sharply. “You’ve been in?”

He hesitated. “A few times.” He hadn’t been in since Kelly left, but there was no reason to admit that.

Amber rested her head against the seat. “You don’t remember. That’s where we met. We ran into each other in the stacks.”

“Oh,” Devin said, but he couldn’t remember. He wouldn’t have been interested. He’d been with Kelly. “Um, sorry.”

The radio glitched out and cycled to an old tune, something his father used to play on long trips. He reached to turn it off, but Amber beat him to it, pressing the button gently.

“You know,” she said, “I read somewhere that people get into ride-shares because they want to confess. Like a modern-day confessional booth.”

He appreciated her dropping the fact that he’d forgotten meeting her. “Is that so?”

She nodded, solemn. “Sure. You’re never going to see the driver again. Perfect opportunity to spill your secrets.”

He tried to keep it light. “I guess I haven’t picked up any secret-keepers before.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Amber said. “Sometimes people just need the right prompt.”

They hit a patch of blacktop pocked with old repairs. The car shuddered. Devin’s hands reflexively tightened.

“Can I ask you something?” Amber said.

He waited, bracing.

“How long have you been single?”

How’d she know? It took him a beat to answer. “Couple weeks,” he lied.

Her smile was small and private. “You’re not a great liar, you know. I’d say three. Maybe four months.”

He stared at her in profile, not sure if he should be offended or impressed. “That obvious?”

Amber shrugged. “I’ve been there. You have the look of someone who hasn’t slept on their own in a while. And now you hate it.”

He took a shallow breath. “I—” He didn’t know what to say. Finally, he landed on: “You have a good eye.”

“It’s a talent. I used to guess people’s secrets in college. Made a whole game of it.” She peered at him, unblinking. “Let me guess—her name was Kelly.”

The car swerved slightly before he could catch himself. He righted it, pulse ticking faster in his neck. “How did you—?”

Amber looked pleased, as if she’d solved a riddle. “Just a guess. Kellys have a type. You seem like their type.”

He stared at the empty road. “Okay.”

She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Want to know something else? People don’t usually use the word ‘habit’ to describe being considerate. That’s the sort of thing you pick up from someone else. Someone who used to call you out on your messes. Someone who made you want to be better.”

He swallowed. The old coffee taste was like acid now.

Amber smiled. “It’s not a bad thing, Devin. Most people don’t even try to improve.”

He forced a laugh, but it caught in his throat. “You’re good at this. Maybe too good.”

She shrugged. “I get bored on late shifts. People are my entertainment.”

He watched the streetlights strobe across the dash. He wondered if there was a camera in her bag, if she was streaming this for a prank or a YouTube bit. But her tone was earnest, even when she was needling him.

Amber propped her chin on her hand. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded, more to have something to do than from genuine curiosity. She was going to tell him no matter what, and he knew it.

“I hate being alone,” she said quietly. “I can’t sleep unless there’s someone else in the house. Right now, I’m not getting much sleep. Well, unless I pass out.”

Devin surprised himself by believing her.

He glanced at her again, the way she seemed both at home and slightly restless in his passenger seat. Maybe she was one of those people whose loneliness hovered just beneath the skin, easy to spot if you looked long enough. Hard to notice if you just went with the bubbly surface.

The ride-share app let out a blip. The client had canceled the route. Devin tapped the notification and logged out of the app.

He pulled over, confused. “You want to get out here?”

Amber waited until he looked her way, then she said, “No.” She didn’t have to say anything else. Her blue eyes did the rest of the talking.

He cleared his throat. “You… you want to keep driving for a while?”

Amber’s smile was immediate. “Yeah, I’d love to keep driving.”

He nodded and steered onto a new avenue, the route unfamiliar, the night suddenly alive with possibility and a new, sharper edge of risk.

They drove with no set destination. The city had fully exhaled by now. Each block was emptier than the last, the storefronts shuttered and the windows above them either black or seething with the flicker of someone’s television insomnia. Devin found himself relaxing into the routine of driving, the simple repetition of acceleration and braking, his mind blanking out. But now he wasn’t alone. Somebody was choosing to ride with him.

Amber turned the radio back on, dialed even lower than before, humming along to half-forgotten songs as she watched the night go by. She asked if he minded the hum, and when he shook his head, she looked satisfied. For several minutes, neither spoke. The only sound was the electric whir of passing streetlights and the road’s low hiss.

At a red light, Amber turned to him. “You always take the long way, don’t you?”

Devin raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“The long way. Your routes are never the shortest. Are they?”

He checked the mirrors, buying time to compose an answer. Wondering what in the world she was getting at. “Sometimes the shortest isn’t the best.”

“You like the quiet roads. Away from the main drag. Less people.” Amber smiled, as if she’d landed on a truth that mattered. “I get it. Some nights the city feels like it’s all just for you.”

He tried to think of a response, but she was already moving on. “So what’s your regular coffee shop?”

He hesitated. “I don’t have one. Just wherever’s open.”

Amber grinned, but this time her smile edged toward predatory. “Liar. It’s the one on Grover and 11th, the place with the ugly red awning. You sit at the barstool by the window, third from the left. Even on days when you don’t drive.”

He almost took a turn too wide, a reflexive twitch correcting the wheel.

“Sorry,” she said, “I have a knack for details. I people-watch when I can’t sleep.”

“That’s a lot of watching,” he said, voice dry.

Amber made a small, pleased sound in her throat. “You’d be amazed how much you can learn if you just pay attention.”

Devin didn’t know what to do. Was she admitting to stalking him?

“You and Kelly met at an art show, right? Was it that little gallery over on Tenth?”

His hands tensed on the wheel. “We didn’t meet at that bookstore, did we? You don’t even work there, do you?”

She didn’t answer.

“How do you know so much about me?”

Amber shrugged. “You left your phone unlocked for a bit when you were at your favorite coffee shop. I saw a couple texts. Sorry if that’s invasive. I was just…curious.” She looked at him sidelong, measuring the damage. “That’s not so weird, is it?”

The streets thinned to nothing, just a crosshatch of alleys and dead-ends on the city’s edge. Devin felt sweat start at his hairline. He told himself it was just the heat from the vents, but the dashboard read fifty-eight degrees. He risked a look at her; she seemed energized by his discomfort, but not cruelly. She watched him with a gentle, predatory focus, as if hoping he’d finally reveal something secret.

He considered pulling over, demanding she get out. But there was something that stopped him. He was curious. And he felt bad about the idea of leaving her stranded in the dead-end city at this hour of the night. And if he let her out, he’d be alone again. So, against better judgment, he continued to drive.

Amber played with the zipper of her coat, then asked, “You ever wonder what she’s doing right now? If she thinks about you, or if she just moved on?”

He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to give her that power. But the inside of the car felt like a confession booth, and the priest was the only one who cared enough to ask.

“I think about it sometimes,” he admitted.

Amber nodded. “Breakups are weird. It’s like losing a person. Like, they’re dead, but their ghost keeps texting you for weeks.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, voice lowering. “What if I told you I know why she left?”

He let out a breath, long and low. “Let me guess—you have a theory?” Devin couldn’t believe he was continuing this conversation. Maybe he was the crazy one.

Amber smiled. “I have more than a theory.”

She held up her phone, scrolling to a screenshot. It was an old social media post of him and Kelly, side-by-side, arms linked. The caption read: “Late-night drives and nowhere to be.” He recognized the photo, remembered the stranger who’d offered to take it, the way the flash made them both look pale and a little haunted.

Amber’s eyes flicked to his, then back to the screen. “You always looked happier in her photos than she did in yours. Like you were living in two different timelines. She was already packing in her head, months before you noticed. Look at her face. There’s no love.”

He felt sick. Because she was right. How had he not noticed sooner? “Why do you have that just pulled up?”

Amber shrugged. “It’s all out there. People don’t bother to delete anything. Even when it hurts.”

He pulled to the curb, not remembering when he’d decided to stop. The street was deserted, the only light from a liquor store sign half a block away.

Amber was quiet, then reached for the radio dial, turning it off with a finality that left the car in pure silence.

“You know,” she said softly, “I think you’re the kind of person who needs someone to see you. Really see you. That’s rare.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

“I’m not here to scare you, Devin. But I’m also not here by accident.”

He stared ahead. “You’ve been following me.”

She considered. “Not in a creepy way. I just—I saw you at the coffee shop, then at the gallery, then driving at night when I couldn’t sleep. You’re always in motion, but you never look like you’re getting anywhere. It’s like you’re waiting for someone to stop you.”

He finally looked at her full-on. “That’s not normal, Amber. How am I not supposed to be scared? You’re a stalker. I should call the police.”

She nodded, accepting the rebuke without flinching. “I know. But most people are never honest about what they want. You are. I respect that.”

The urge to run warred with the strange comfort of her attention. For a moment, Devin considered how little would change if he simply let the conversation go further, let Amber say whatever she needed. After all, he was the driver. It wasn’t his job to redirect the course.

He cleared his throat. “So what happens now?”

Amber’s hand slid across the center console, resting lightly on his forearm. Her skin was cool, her grip steady. The gesture was ambiguous—part threat, part comfort.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her smile soft but absolute. “I just want to talk. We have all night.”

Devin sat perfectly still, the engine idling, the outside world silent except for the ticking of the hazard lights he hadn’t meant to turn on. The blue dashboard glow cast their faces in the same soft light, two people locked in an intimacy as fragile as glass.

He thought of Kelly and the empty side of the bed. He thought of Amber and the knowledge that someone had been watching all along. In that moment, the distinction between threat and company blurred, and he wasn’t sure which he preferred.

Outside, the street was still. Inside the car, the air was thick with confused anticipation. Neither of them reached for the door.

The Ultimatum

The car idled, vibrating beneath Devin like a living thing. The windows fogged at the edges, turning the outside world to a watercolor. Amber sat angled toward him, watching with that head-cocked, careful patience you’d see in a cat deciding whether to pounce.

She broke the silence first, voice sanded down to something gentle. “You can relax, you know. I’m not going to bite.” She smiled, but the teeth were almost visible behind the lips.

Devin forced himself to exhale, then flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Amber’s eyes went soft. “Sorry. I don’t know how to have a normal conversation anymore. I spend so much time inside my own head.” She drew closer, the gap across the console evaporating to a few inches. Devin held still. He could smell the cherry blossom scent now, sharper.

“You ever think,” she said, voice low, “that the world is just a bunch of people pretending they’re not lonely?” She ran her thumb along the seam of the passenger seat, her nails painted a royal blue. “I used to think I was the only one. Then I started watching. Not just you—everyone. Even the happy couples. Maybe especially them.”

The city was silent, so her words filled the whole car. Devin’s chest buzzed with a complicated mix: part panic, part hunger, part awe that she could see through him so cleanly. He said, “Sometimes I drive just to have someone in the car. Even if it’s a stranger.”

Amber grinned, showing more of her teeth this time. “Exactly.” Her hand hovered over the shifter, as if she were considering putting the car in gear herself. “You want me to get out and walk?” she asked. “Or…?”

He looked at her. At the shadows striping her face, the cold intelligence flickering behind the performance. He said, “It’s too cold. You shouldn’t walk from here.”

Amber nodded, satisfied. She scooted even closer, knees touching the side of the console. “I like this car,” she said, almost to herself. “Feels like its own little world.”

Devin swallowed. “That’s kind of what I think. My place feels like a box. At least this one moves.”

“It’s a good car.” She lightly moved her hand on his forearm. “You’re freezing.”

He hadn’t realized he was shaking. “Just—nerves, I guess.”

Amber’s fingers traced the tendons in his wrist, reading his pulse. She watched his face the whole time, searching for the moment his guard fell. “You know what I wish?” she said, softer than before.

“What?” He wasn’t sure if he should meet her gaze or keep staring at the dash.

“That people could just be honest. About what they want. About being scared. About needing someone.”

She leaned in, and before he could react, her lips pressed to his. The kiss was dry at first, calculated, but then she shifted her grip on his arm and deepened it, drawing him closer. Her mouth was hot, and she tasted faintly of coffee and something medicinal, like cherry cough syrup. Devin tried to back away, but his skull thudded against the headrest, and then she was already pulling back, her hand lingering on his neck.

His heart jackhammered. He felt the heat of her body, the sudden spike of adrenaline that made his whole face buzz. For half a second, he’d wanted her to keep going. For half a second, he’d believed it was real.

She noticed. Amber’s smile softened, almost apologetic. “Sorry. I guess I crossed a line.”

He thought of Kelly then, how she used to kiss him in the morning before leaving for work, how the last goodbyes had been gentle lies about continuing to come back. The memory flooded his throat with guilt and made him dizzy.

Devin put both hands back on the wheel and looked straight ahead. “I should take you home,” he said. “It’s late.”

Amber exhaled a sharp breath. “Wow. I killed the vibe that quick?”

He shook his head, but she had already withdrawn. The side of her face turned down, eyes narrowed and glinting with something sharper than before.

A new silence filled the car. It wasn’t empty—it was the kind you could cut.

Amber set both hands on her lap, fingers laced tight, and watched his face. “You know,” she said, tone gone cool and analytical, “most people, when they’re rejected, at least try to act polite about it. But I’m not scared. You hurt me, Devin. You need to know you hurt me just now.”

He flinched at that. “I don’t—”

“You’re scared of me. I can smell it,” she said, almost gleeful. “It’s kind of exhilarating, honestly. You know you could’ve just gone with it, right? Lied even. But no.”

He didn’t answer. Every instinct said to get out of the car and run, but he felt compelled to stay.

Amber smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll go.”

She reached for her purse, eyes never leaving his face, and there was a sound—a soft click, barely audible over the hum of the car. For a second, Devin thought she was just grabbing her things. But the movement was all wrong, slow, and her expression too calm.

She drew her hand back, and in it was a small pistol, matte black, no visible safety. She cradled it with expert casualness, as if it were just another accessory.

Devin’s first reaction was animal: every muscle froze, then his chest constricted so tightly he forgot how to breathe. His fingers locked white around the wheel. He stared at the gun, then at her face, then back at the gun, unsure what to process first.

Amber didn’t point it at him. She just let it rest in her lap, index finger not quite on the trigger. “Relax,” she said, her voice somewhere between bored and cold. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already. And I don’t want to hurt you. Not really.”

He tried to speak, but the words were lost to the pounding in his ears.

Amber leaned in again, her face inches from his, and this time there was nothing gentle about it. “You’re not going to drop me off,” she whispered. “We’re going to drive somewhere together. You and I. How it’s meant to be.” Her gaze pinned him to the seat. “Now, be a good driver and do what I tell you.”

She gestured at the gearshift with the barrel, just enough to make her point. “Pull back onto the street.”

Devin’s hands, trembling, obeyed on instinct. He put the car into drive. They rolled forward, gliding down the empty street as if nothing had changed.

But everything had.

The city peeled away from them in shrinking layers: first the duplexes and shop lights, then the gas stations still open for truckers and the last shift. Past that, only the sodium-orange hush of empty arterials, blocks of car dealerships, and the stretch of highway that marked the city’s unlit skin.

Devin drove without thinking, the way he had all his life. Left hand tight on the wheel, right hand floating uselessly at his side. Amber leaned back into the seat, gun in her lap, finger tapping at the trigger guard in a rhythm that matched his pulse. Every now and then, she scanned the horizon, then flicked her gaze sideways to watch him. It was like sitting next to a snake that had learned to smile.

Aside from Amber’s occasional directions, neither spoke. The silence packed heavier every mile, like sand filling a jar. Devin’s eyes darted to the rearview, checking for anyone, even a cop, but the roads were scrubbed clean by night. He tried to draw a breath without shaking.

Amber finally broke the stalemate. “You know why I picked tonight?” She stared out the windshield as she spoke, face lit up by blue radio haze and the intermittent stutter of passing lamps.

He licked his lips. “No.”

She smiled, almost proud. “Because it’s the anniversary. Four months to the day. You and Kelly. You were together almost three years, but you don’t remember dates, do you?”

He flinched at the mention. “I remember some things.”

“Sure,” Amber said. “Like her favorite mug, and how she always left the heater on high even in June. I know. I remember, too. You complained about the utility bill.”

He gripped the steering wheel harder. “How long have you been—”

“Watching?” She finished for him, voice bright. “Longer than you know, but not as long as you’d think. I’m good at it. I don’t need long.”

The gun in her hand was so small it looked like a toy in the shifting dash light, but the calm in her voice said otherwise.

Amber’s tone softened. “Do you know what I like about you, Devin? You never try to be the hero. Even now, you’re not playing brave. I hate the ones who pretend.”

She unlocked her phone with a gloved thumb, then angled it toward him. A photograph filled the screen—an unremarkable cabin, gabled roof and battered green siding, sitting in a pocket of woods that could have been anywhere. The next swipe showed the interior: clean, spartan, a small fireplace stacked with wood, a single bed made up with crisp white sheets.

“Recognize it?” Amber said.

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the road. “Should I?”

“It’s only twenty miles from here,” she said, and her voice went dreamy for a moment. “I leased it last month. Even had it cleaned for you. I don’t half-do things.”

She flicked to a photo of a table covered in groceries—cans of soup, a shrink-wrapped cake, instant coffee in bulk. “We won’t have to leave for days,” she said, almost contented.

Devin felt sweat running down his back. He glanced at her again, saw the way her jaw was loose, then clenched, then loose again—like she was barely holding herself in check.

“Why me?” He asked, quietly.

Amber shrugged, her mood swinging lighter again. “Because you’re invisible, Devin. No close family, a lease that’s month-to-month, and a savings account you haven’t touched in three years.”

He couldn’t think of a way to answer that didn’t sound unnecessarily defensive. She was right.

Amber reached over and gripped his knee, not with the gun but with her other hand, squeezing hard enough to hurt. “Don’t worry. I’m going to help you. Your problems are all going to go away.”

He tried to steady his breathing, but every inhale felt smaller than the last.

Amber let go of his knee, wiped her palm on her coat. “You know, it’s okay to talk. Not just answer my questions with one-word sentences. I mean really talk. I’m not unreasonable.”

He looked at her and saw the fever in her eyes, the way her skin glowed slick in the instrument light. He wondered if she’d taken something. She didn’t seem high. Just unhinged.

He thought about the weight of his phone in the cupholder. If he could distract her, even for a second—

Amber watched him consider it. She grinned, lips peeled back. “You want to try something?” she asked, voice sweet. “Go ahead. Might make it more interesting.”

He stared straight ahead. “No. I just want this to be over.”

She sighed, disappointed. “You’re so defeatist, Devin. You could at least pretend.”

They drove for another fifteen miles, out where the city streetlights ended, and the world was only shapes and dark. Amber reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, the gun never leaving her lap. She hummed a song—something old, something his mother used to sing under her breath in the kitchen.

For a long while, it was only the hum of tires and the thin, metallic song of Amber’s voice.

Devin moved his right hand slowly to the cupholder, fingers wrapping the cold shape of his phone.

Amber noticed. “You calling for help?”

“No,” he said, voice flat. “I was going to check the GPS. Make sure we’re going the quickest way.”

She watched him, eyes narrowed to slits. “Liar. I know where we’re going. Leave it.”

He didn’t look down. He knew the grip by heart. His thumb found the power button on the side of the casing and pressed it—once, twice, as many times as possible in rapid succession. A short, frantic buzz against his palm—

Then, Amber moved so fast the world blurred—she was pinning his wrist to the gearshift, fingers digging into the nerve just above his pulse.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, almost admiring. She picked up the phone and threw it in the back seat, never breaking eye contact. “You can’t have nice things if you won’t listen to me.”

For the first time in his life, Devin was finding it hard to concentrate on driving. The car swerved hard, up onto the shoulder with a thump and a rain of gravel. He jerked the wheel back, heart hammering so hard he almost retched. The tires screamed, and for a second, they skidded sideways, then righted.

He sucked in air, vision gone gray at the edges.

Amber eased back into her seat, hair wild now, cheeks flushed. She laughed, a sound as sharp as broken glass. “You nearly killed us,” she said, delighted. “I’m impressed.”

He watched the road, hands welded to the wheel, breath coming ragged. He thought of nothing. He thought of Kelly, of her mug on the counter and her careful hands and the time she’d said, “You’re not broken, you’re just afraid of yourself.”

He wondered if she’d ever think of him again.

Amber put her feet up on the dash, gun pointed at the roof, and said, “Let’s try this again. Next right. No phones.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The car rolled onward, the darkness growing thicker, and all the exits vanished behind them.

Highway gave way to blacktop, blacktop to a slither of dirt road that snaked upward. The world outside the windshield flickered from open fields to sharp drop-offs and then to the dense, dark cathedral of evergreens. On the right, the cliff edge loomed over nothing. On the left, rock wall glistened with damp, like some hungry animal pressed close to the glass. The road had no shoulder, just a thin white line pretending to keep them safe.

Amber was coiled in the passenger seat, both feet up, one heel digging a crescent into the vinyl. Her coat had slipped off her shoulder, exposing the sharp angle of her collarbone. She still hadn't buckled her seatbelt after the last scuffle, and her body swayed loose as the car turned. The pistol was cradled in her lap, but now she gestured with it when she talked, waving it around like a baton. Sometimes she even aimed it at the windshield, as if she might shoot out the night itself.

"I bet she never let you drive out here," Amber said, voice breathy. "Most people are scared of the woods. They think they'll get eaten by wolves, but the only real danger is the quiet. It swallows you up."

Devin kept his gaze glued to the wavering road. "Kelly hated being alone," he said. "She needed people."

Amber laughed, and for a second, it was almost pretty. "And you don't. You think you do, but you don't." She reached over and patted his thigh, gun bumping his knee. "You're not like them. You're not like her. That’s why we can be alone together."

He didn't answer. The car's high beams plowed two tunnels through the trees. The world narrowed to a ribbon of dirt and the rhythmic smack of branches on the roof.

"You know what I noticed about you?" Amber asked. "You're always waiting for something bad to happen, so you can't be disappointed when it does." She grinned, blue eyes wide. "But what if something good happened instead?"

Devin adjusted his grip on the wheel, every muscle in his arms locked. He kept glancing between the windshield, the rearview, and her unbuckled form. The gun. The seatbelt. The drop-off.

"You don't know me," he said.

"I know you better than Kelly ever did," Amber replied. Her voice went syrupy, then hard again. "She never deserved you. She was a parasite—she bled you out, and when you had nothing left, she left, too."

He flinched. The words were almost verbatim from some bad therapist's file, or maybe something he'd said out loud to himself once, just to see if it fit. It didn't, but the echo was strong enough to make him sweat.

Amber leaned forward, face inches from the glass, watching the edge of the road slide by. She hummed under her breath, then said, "You should see the place in daylight. The view is insane." She giggled. "But I prefer the night."

He nodded, keeping the car steady through a hairpin turn. The headlights hit a reflector nailed to a pine trunk, then died back into the general ink.

"You know what I think?" she said, voice dropping. "I think you want to be out here. Away from everything. Away from anyone who could ever judge you."

He didn't answer, but she didn't expect him to.

She rambled on, words tumbling out in bursts. "We're the same, you and me. Two pieces of a puzzle everyone else lost the box for. You don't need to be alone. You just need someone who gets it."

Devin's thoughts thinned to a thread. The gun in her hand. The sharp turn ahead. The half-inch of empty space between her shoulder and the seatbelt slot. He pictured what would happen if he jerked the wheel hard left or right. If he braked. If he accelerated.

Amber caught his look. "You're planning something," she said, delighted. "I can see it in your jaw."

He forced his hands to relax, tried to smile. "I'm just tired."

"You will be," she said. "But it'll be worth it."

He didn’t understand.

The incline steepened. At the crest, the car drifted, tires skimming over loose gravel. Amber squealed and clapped her hands, the gun knocking against the dash. "That was awesome," she crowed. "Do it again."

He nodded, face numb.

They spiraled up another quarter-mile. Then a long, narrow bridge appeared, spanning a gap that dropped straight to darkness. The rails were rusted, the planks slick with dew.

Amber sat up. "Almost there," she whispered. "You ever wanted something so bad you could taste it?"

Devin nodded again, and this time he let the silence answer for him.

The bridge rattled under their weight. The trees fell away, and the moon lit up the valley below, a far-off glow like someone else's life happening in the distance.

Halfway across, Amber rested her head on the window. "After tonight, you'll never be alone again," she promised.

He watched the lines on the bridge, the way they twisted and bucked under the tires. He watched Amber, her skin luminous in the cold light, and the gun loose in her lap.

For the first time all night, Devin let himself imagine the end. Not just for her, but for him. An ending that wasn't a slow hollowing, but a single act of motion. He felt calm, almost peaceful.

At the far side of the bridge, the road doubled back on itself, a hairpin bordered by nothing but sky. Amber pointed the gun at him, for the first time with her finger on the trigger. "We’re almost there," she said.

He pressed the accelerator.

The engine moaned, and the speedometer leapt.

Amber tried to aim, eyes wild. "What’re you—" she breathed.

He waited until the last possible second, the instant when momentum and fear were perfectly balanced.

Then Devin jerked the wheel, hard and final, into the curve.

The world spun. The tires shrieked. For a moment, all he could hear was Amber's scream, rising and rising, even as the headlights carved the void.

Then gravity took over.

And there was nothing but the cold, clear feeling of falling.

Desperate Escape

The first rotation was a blur of branches and sky and the wild white of Amber’s eyes in the passenger seat. She reached out, grabbing for anything, but the laws of motion were against her. She struck the windshield with the full force of her body, leaving a blossoming spiderweb in the glass. Her perfume—the synthetic cherry blossom—burst into the air, dense enough that Devin tasted it on his tongue.

The car landed nose-first, bounced, then rolled sideways. Windows shattered in sequence: driver’s side, then passenger’s, then rear. With every revolution, the car's frame folded tighter, the metal frame moaning under the strain. Devin’s head snapped forward, jaw smacking the steering wheel hard enough to explode light in his eyes. The seatbelt cut into his chest, held him in place, but his arms flailed wild, seeking purchase.

On the third roll, the world outside filled with night again, and Devin heard the scream—Amber’s voice, raw and animal—as she was wrenched from the vehicle. He caught a final glimpse: her hair a flag in the wind, blood spraying in a bright arc, fingers spread wide, then gone, ripped away into the void by centrifugal force.

The car slammed roof-first into a bank of roots and came to rest upside down, the front end wedged against the trunk of a tree. Devin hung there, seatbelt locked tight, breath knocked out of him and every muscle screaming for oxygen. For a while, there was only the hissing of the engine, the tick of cooling metal, and the soft, irregular drip of something—oil, maybe, or blood—from the dash to the ceiling, which was now the floor.

He tried to take inventory. His legs felt wrong, but he could wiggle his toes. His left arm was numb from shoulder to fingertip; his right, pressed between his body and the caved-in door, throbbed with hot, angry pain. His face was sticky—blood, definitely his own, running down from his forehead and into his left eye. Breathing hurt. Something inside, a rib maybe, stabbed at every inhale.

He hung in limbo, staring at the world through a windshield crazed with cracks and half-covered in moss and dirt. Rain was falling. In the diffuse glow from above, the forest looked more like the bottom of a lake—strange shapes waving just out of reach, shadows tilting in the wind.

A raw, chemical stink filled the car. Gasoline, smeared with the high note of antifreeze, undercut by the sharp, stinging trace of Amber’s perfume. He sucked air through his teeth and tried to get his bearings.

The passenger seat was empty, fabric slashed open by the force of the crash. Amber’s bag was still there, contents spilled everywhere. A spiral notebook, its pages torn and scattered, had landed in the crook of the upside-down cupholder. Her phone lay screen-down on the ceiling. The pistol was gone, vanished somewhere in the tumble.

He turned his head, slow as a stuck clock, and peered through the fractured window. At first, he saw nothing. Just the dense, indifferent night. Then, a few yards away, a flash of white: Amber’s coat, wrapped awkwardly around a tangle of limbs. She had landed hard, body twisted at the hips, one leg bent the wrong way. Her hair was a fan of dark, glossy strands, face half-buried in the wet leaves.

For a moment, he thought she was dead. Then, impossibly, she stirred—just a flick of her hand, a twitch in the arm, nothing more. Relief tangled with fear, a knot he couldn't unravel. He looked away, unable to process what came next.

His own situation was dire. Every time he inhaled, the pain in his chest grew sharper, like a knife being twisted. His left shoulder was wrenched up near his ear, pinned by the belt. He reached across with his right, managed to get two fingers on the seatbelt release. The button didn’t budge.

He tried again, harder. The pain doubled. Blood from his scalp dripped onto his lips, thick and metallic. He wiped it away, then braced his feet against the dashboard, using his legs to lever his upper body closer to the release. This time, the button gave. He dropped, landing headfirst onto the crushed roof of the car.

The impact drove the air from his lungs. He lay there, disoriented, cheek pressed against cold, greasy metal. The world swam, vision blurring at the edges. After a minute, he managed to roll onto his back and push himself upright, or as upright as the space allowed.

From here, the cabin of the car was a cave, everything upside down and reversed. The steering column jutted up like a periscope, and the gearshift had sheared off at the base. Shards of glass covered every surface, glinting even in the low light. The smell of gasoline was stronger here, raw and dizzying.

He checked his phone—gone, thrown somewhere in the chaos. The dashboard display still glowed, feeding blue light into the ruined interior. On the ceiling, the airbag had not deployed. Of course.

Devin pushed at the door, but it didn’t move. He reached for the passenger side, but his shoulder screamed in protest. He tried to breathe through the pain, blinking sweat and blood from his eyes.

Outside, the night was silent. Not even the buzz of insects or the distant rumble of passing cars. Just rain, falling soft on moss and metal.

He forced himself to move, to think. He needed to get out. The car could catch fire, could shift again. He sucked in a shallow breath, then kicked at the remainder of the passenger-side window. The first hit did nothing but send a sharp bolt of pain up his leg. The second, with more desperation than force, popped the glass, sending a rain of tiny cubes onto his lap.

He clawed at the window frame and hauled himself out, scraping his shoulder raw against jagged metal. The world outside was cold, wet, and real. He flopped onto the mud and rolled away from the car, gasping for air.

The car looked worse from this angle. The front end was crumpled into the base of the tree, hood folded like a paper fan. One headlight blinked, throwing off and on in a dying pulse. The trunk was popped, contents spilled out: a roadside emergency kit, a first-aid box, and a nest of random debris. Oil and coolant dripped from the engine, pooling under the wreck.

Above, through a break in the canopy, he could see the distant line of the highway, headlights passing every few minutes. He was so close, yet utterly isolated.

He glanced back at Amber. She hadn’t moved. Her arms were wrapped around her ribs, chin tucked into her chest. From here, he could see the bloody smear on her cheek, the glint of glass in her hair. He crawled closer, every inch of his body protesting.

He stopped just out of reach, unsure if she was conscious. Then her eyes snapped open, wide and wild, pupils enormous in the dark. For a long beat, they just stared at each other, two animals in the woods.

The silence was total. Rain pattered on leaves. A drop ran down Devin’s forehead, mixing with the blood on his cheek.

Amber tried to speak. Her lips worked, but the only sound was a wet, rattling gasp. She coughed, and blood flecked her mouth. Her gaze locked on him, full of accusation and something else—triumph, maybe, or awe.

He wanted to say something, but all that came out was a thin, reedy “Why?”

Amber’s head lolled to the side. Her body shook, then stilled again. He couldn’t tell if she was gone or just waiting for him to make the next move.

From the wreck, the blue dash light painted everything in an underwater glow. The world felt like it had shrunk to this single patch of mud and blood, surrounded by trees and the memory of motion.

Devin sat there, legs curled under him, every cell on fire. The only thing that made sense was the pain.

He looked up at the road, then down at the ruin of the car, and finally, at Amber’s motionless form. He didn’t know what would happen next. For the first time in months, there was no script, no predictable path forward.

Devin pushed himself up, hands sinking into the mulch, every nerve screaming. He pulled himself away from the wreck, half-crawling with his elbows like a wounded animal. Each breath set his ribs on fire, but he kept moving, fighting the need to lie down and let it all end.

He aimed for a cluster of trees about ten yards away, branches arcing together to make a crude shelter. Every drag of his body sent a sharp spray of glass shards from his clothes, and his knees were numb by the time he reached the shadowed edge of the trees. He leaned against a trunk, bark scraping his cheek, and tried to focus.

There was a voice in his head, insistent, telling him to keep moving. Get to the road. Find help. But his legs didn't want to work. He wiped blood from his eye and blinked up at the sky, which was just a swirl of black and gray. The slope above seemed impossibly steep, the highway impossibly far.

Behind him, the silence snapped.

It was a wet, gurgling cough. Then a low moan, the sound of pain and raw survival. Devin pressed himself flat to the ground, muscles clenched, listening. The next sound was unmistakable—Amber calling his name.

“Devin.” The word hung on the air, strained but stubbornly clear.

He turned, careful to keep out of direct line of sight. Amber had rolled onto her stomach and was using her elbows to inch forward, one leg trailing uselessly behind her. Every few seconds, she’d pause, then gasp and resume the crawl, lips peeled back in a grimace that was equal parts agony and hunger.

“Devin!” she called again, louder this time. Her eyes searched the darkness until they found his shape. Even through the haze, the focus was uncanny. She smiled—a slit of teeth bright with blood.

He wanted to run, but his own injuries made that impossible. So he watched her, heart slamming, calculating. She’d lost the gun in the crash. If he could keep distance, maybe he could climb for help, maybe get back to the road. He tried to push off from the tree, but his left arm folded, numb from shoulder to wrist.

Amber kept coming. Her good hand fumbled at the leaves, fingers spread, nails raking at the ground. With a burst of effort, she dragged herself another yard, then another. The lower half of her coat had torn away, and her bare knees left smeared trails in the mud. The woods drank up her sounds, made her seem closer than she was.

“Devin,” she croaked, voice breaking, “help me. Please.”

He didn’t move. There was nothing of the woman he’d picked up hours before—no confidence, no irony, only the stripped-down engine of willpower and want. It frightened him more than the gun had.

Amber rolled to her side and coughed, a thick bubble of red on her chin. Then she twisted, scanning the debris field between them. Her eyes caught on a glint in the leaves—a long, jagged shard of the car’s shattered body, shaped like a knife. She locked eyes with Devin, then started inching toward it, her whole body quivering with the effort. Devin saw the movement. He didn't think; he just acted. He lunged, putting all his weight on his right leg. Amber’s hand closed around the makeshift weapon just as he crashed into her.

They clashed together, a tangle of limbs, Devin’s hands closing around her wrists. She fought back with surprising strength, slamming her head into his chest, clawing at his face. The pain sharpened him, kept him present. He pinned her arm behind her back and jammed his knee into the small of her back. The move made her scream—high, ragged, animal.

“Stop,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Amber. Stop.”

She thrashed, shrieking, using every ounce of broken body to buck him off. But she was hurt worse than he was, and after a minute her struggles lost heat. She sagged, face pressed to the cold ground, eyes rolling back. Devin held her there, arms shaking, breath coming in broken rasps.

Above them, the sound of distant sirens began to rise—a faint wail at first, then growing clearer, closer. Amber heard it, too. She twisted her head, staring up at Devin with a look he couldn’t read. “You did this,” she hissed, voice wet with blood. “I had it all planned. It would have been clean.”

He didn’t answer. He kept her pinned, watching the blue-and-red strobe grow brighter through the trees. It felt like hours, but it was only seconds before the first flashlight beams split the darkness.

Amber went limp. Devin let go, rolling away, body curling into a defensive ball.

The woods filled with voices—shouts, urgent commands, the crunch of boots on wet earth. He closed his eyes and let himself fall, every cell surrendering at last to gravity, to shock, to the sudden freedom of letting go.

When the medics reached him, Devin was still on the ground, arms folded over his ribs. They rolled him gently, checked for injuries, voices muffled by the soft ring in his ears. One of them pressed an oxygen mask to his face, and the air tasted sweet, like plastic and new beginnings.

They loaded him onto a stretcher. He saw Amber’s face in the brief moment before they carried her away—eyes dull, lips slack, blood everywhere. The cherry blossom scent was gone, replaced by something raw and honest. She looked at him, and for the first time since they’d met, he saw her as she was: a broken person like him, desperate and alone.

They lifted him up the slope toward the lights, and the night closed behind him.

***

The hospital room was a study in beige and blue. The walls, meant to soothe, looked more like pale sand under fluorescent light, and the ceiling tiles floated overhead in uneven grids. Devin lay cocooned in starched sheets, ribs bound tight and left arm slung in a foam brace. Even blinking hurt, but in a different way than before—less panic, more the dull reminder that healing was possible, even if it was slow.

Monitors beeped a lazy rhythm at his bedside. The smell of antiseptic hovered over everything, so sharp it made the air taste bitter. On the table beside him sat a plastic pitcher of water, a remote he couldn’t reach, and a small white tray with untouched gelatin that quivered each time the door shut.

He didn’t remember much from the first forty-eight hours. There’d been flashes—EMTs in yellow slickers, Amber’s eyes wide and empty, the inside of an ambulance brighter than day. There was the memory of a voice—male, official—telling him he was “very lucky.” He didn’t feel lucky, exactly. But he was alive.

On the third morning, a detective came. He was built like a refrigerator and wore his badge clipped to a battered nylon lanyard. He entered without knocking, balancing a manila folder and a cup of hospital coffee.

“Mr. Matthews?” the detective said, voice calm, almost bored.

Devin nodded. The motion pinched his skull.

The detective pulled a chair close and sat, spreading the folder on his lap. He flipped a page, then eyed Devin over the rim of his cup. “Just got the tox screens back on the woman. Nothing in her system but caffeine and adrenaline. Which, I guess, tracks.”

“Is she—” Devin started, voice weak.

The detective shook his head. “Still alive. Broken ribs, head trauma. She won’t be a threat for a while.” He thumbed through the papers, the corners of his mouth twitching in a faint, bitter smile. “I thought you might want some answers.”

Devin tried to nod again, then stopped.

The detective slid a photo across the blanket. It showed Amber, taken months before—different hair, heavier makeup, but the eyes were unmistakable. “Name’s Amber Holloway,” the detective said. “She’s used half a dozen surnames, but that’s the one on her license.”

He placed two more photos, faces of men in their twenties and thirties. “We know of six others she targeted. All missing. Probably dead.” He tapped one of the faces. “Guy from upstate, two years back. He went missing. She’s been using his bank account for more than a year. We now have evidence she’d been following him for months.”

A pause, then another page. “She’s… efficient. Knew how to get into systems, steal data, cover her tracks.” He met Devin’s gaze, voice level. “I know it’s hard to believe, but you’re the lucky one. You stopped her and brought all of this into the light.”

Devin stared at the photos, at Amber’s expression in each one: always looking past the camera, always searching for something just out of reach. It was hard to reconcile the image with the woman who’d sat in his passenger seat, the one who’d talked about loneliness as if it were a contagion.

He asked, “Why didn’t anyone stop her sooner?”

The detective shrugged. “We didn’t connect the dots in time.” Then, he tapped the folder. “Not until we got the 911 ping from your phone. Five rapid presses. It sent a GPS burst just before the signal died. You led us right to the area, and it was easy enough to follow the tire marks in the gravel where you almost went off the road until we got to the crash site. If you hadn't triggered that alarm, we wouldn't have found you until the spring thaw. And the dots wouldn’t have been connected until then. Actually, maybe not even then. Anyway, it was all you.”

Devin and the detective sat for a moment in silence.

After a bit, he packed up the photos, stowing them in the folder. “Someone from Victim Support will be by. You should talk to them.” He reached out and, after a second’s hesitation, gave Devin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be right in the end. She’ll be in prison for life.”

He left, the door sighing shut.

Devin lay there, eyes stinging. He studied the ceiling for a long time, tracing the seams of the tiles. He tried to remember every detail of the drive—the way Amber had smiled, the grip of her fingers on the pistol, the way she’d called his name through the woods. He’d thought he was invisible, that no one could see the cracks running through him. But Amber had seen everything, magnified it, used it. The thought left him hollowed out, but also weirdly clean.

The rest of the day passed in snippets: a nurse changing his IV; a therapist, very young, giving him pamphlets on trauma; a police tech collecting his statement with a recorder. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel the car spinning, could hear the scream of metal and glass, could see Amber crawling through the mud with that look of pure want. He was never sure whether it was a nightmare or just memory.

After sunset, the floor quieted. Devin drifted in and out, counting the blinks of the hall light under his door.

A gentle vibration woke him. His phone, retrieved from the wreck, sat charging next to the pitcher. The screen was new, the old one spidered with cracks. He picked it up, thumb trembling.

There was a single text waiting. It was from Kelly:

I’ve seen everything on the news. I’m so glad you’re okay. Thinking of you.

Devin stared at the words. He hadn’t heard from Kelly in weeks.

He read it again, then again. He started to type a reply, deleted it, then tried again. He wasn’t sure what to say. For the first time, though, he felt the possibility of saying something true.

He looked at the window, at the moon peeking between the curtains, at the city below. It was quiet, but not empty. There were other people out there, awake and wishing they weren’t alone.

Devin let his fingers rest on the keyboard. He thought of the car, the night, the way things could have ended. He thought of Amber, and all the others, and of how easy it would be to spin this—use it—to get back with Kelly.

Instead, he typed:

I’m going to be fine. Take care of yourself, Kelly.

He sent it before he could change his mind.

For a while, nothing happened. But then a reply blinked onto the screen:

Take care, Dev.

He smiled, small and lopsided. It hurt, but it felt good, too.

In the blue-lit hush of the hospital room, Devin lay back, finally content to be alone.