Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As I barreled down the street, I took a quick glance in the rearview mirror. The men who came to my aid had disappeared, except for the silhouette of a leg slipping behind the car's open door. The car started to move toward me, the door shutting while the car was in motion. It was obviously much more powerful than mine—a full-size Ford or Chevy. If this had been a race, my Fiesta would be the tortoise to their hare.

I pressed the gas pedal as hard as I dared, looking both ways and praying as I blew through a stop sign. With a wrench of the wheel, I careered to the right down a side street. I swear my side of the car lifted off the ground. At least, it felt that way. When I checked the rearview mirror again, a car that could've been the one in pursuit rounded the turn I'd taken. I swung left onto another street, punched the gas, then turned left again.

By this time, I was buried deep within residential Baltimore City. Not a bad neighborhood, but one from which I had no clue about how to reach the interstate. I was startled into swerving to the opposite lane after spying a plastic garbage bag on the side of the road—a sight that sets the letters "IED" flashing through my brain. I eased on the brake and slowed enough to stop for the few seconds it took me to back the Fiesta into a tiny gap between two cars.

I had chosen the spot hoping that I'd go unnoticed if the car went by. It was between streetlights, creating a shadowy hideout between pools of light. Of course, if they did notice me, I was screwed. All they'd have to do is pull up alongside me and I'd be trapped. Well done, Erica!

Having few options, I shrugged it off and dove into my shoulder bag for a pen and paper, so I could scribble the car's license plate number before I forgot it. The act of writing it relieved me of the need to repeat it mentally—over and over—like the world's most annoying mantra.

I heard the car before I saw it and slid down below the steering wheel. The headlights glared above me, then dimmed slightly. From the sound of the motor, the vehicle seemed to be moving as fast as a snail. Keep going! I wanted to shout.

To my surprise, the car did just that. Even so, I waited ten minutes before extricating myself from my crouched position.

A quick scan revealed a street sign tinted orange in the glow of a sodium lamp. I reached for my cell phone and checked Google Maps. Adjusting the size with fumbling fingers disclosed the art school's location and reoriented me to mine. Now, to figure out how to reach the interstate without encountering those Good Samaritans.