Due South

Chapter One

There was blood on the steering wheel. She could feel it, slick and warm under her palms. Gritting her teeth and tightening her grip, she pressed down on the gas until the car juddered beneath her and jerked forward almost resentfully. The road stretched ahead like a mouthful of busted teeth, jagged and pitted and gaping in a taunting grin. She hit a pothole and swerved hard to the left, swearing under her breath. She glanced in the rearview like there might be someone there to hear her. Someone there to judge.

All she saw was the empty seat, and the dark stains spattered like a galaxy of black stars against the gray upholstery. There was so much blood. She should remember where that much blood came from, shouldn't she? From what she could tell, it wasn't her own. And that was almost worse, wasn't it? Being covered in someone else's blood when you didn't know whose and you didn't know why and you didn't know how you even got into this beat up little Honda in the first place?

It was definitely worse.

Ainsley sucked in a breath and fixed her eyes firmly on the road ahead. Trees, violently green and thick as a concrete wall pressed in on her from all sides, arching overhead, limbs woven tight as if to hold back the sky. She passed a blue sign that said, "Welcome to Tennessee," and blinked. There was something faintly familiar about the sign. Had she passed it before? Had she been planning a trip?

The almost-memory lingered just out of reach, tendrils of recognition licking at the back of her neck, setting her skin crawling.

A light popped on and a warning bell dinged and she very nearly drove the car into the guardrail. Swearing, Ainsley shook her head and told herself to get it together. It was the gas light, nothing more.

Except it was much more, because now she would have to find a gas station, find some money, find some clothes that didn't look like she was an extra on the set of CSI. Or she could abandon the car, drive it off the road and into the trees and hope it took a while for anyone to notice it. And in the meantime, she would... what? Head off into the woods without food or water or any idea where she was? Go home? Run away? When you came to behind the wheel of a car that wasn't your own, covered in blood that wasn't your own, driving through a state that wasn't your own... what was the appropriate response?

Ainsley's dead-end thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a sound that sent shivers of both elation and terror through her body. She took her foot off the gas, slowed to a crawl, and stared at the glove compartment.

The sound came again, distinct and shrill and unmistakable.

A cell phone. Her cell phone.

Whoever was on the other end had better have some answers.