Christmas Crime in Colorado. Cassie Miles
cry—loud and guttural, wrenched from deep inside her. Then she yelled again. Screaming in the car was something that psychos did, but she had to let it out, had to find release in her fight against the invisible demon of fear. “I am a good person. I deserve a normal, quiet life. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”
The night answered her with overwhelming silence. For a moment, her fear seemed almost insignificant as she looked through the windshield at the massive mountains and the moonlight glistening on the snow. The pine trees watched like sentinels.
Her breath began to come more easily.
Turning left, she drove cautiously on the curving road that bordered Squirrel Creek as she considered the practical problem of where to stay tonight. During ski season, even the cheapest accommodations in Aspen were too expensive for her budget, and just about every place was fully booked anyway. She glanced down to check her gas gauge. She had enough to drive to Glenwood Springs, where it was likely she’d find an affordable place to stay.
She actually didn’t want to be in Aspen. The last thing she needed was to run into someone she knew—or worse, someone who knew Sally. Though Aspen was a worldclass resort, there was a small-town feeling among the local merchants, hotel staff and those who worked in the ski industry. Everybody was into everybody else’s business.
She turned left onto the shortcut to Glenwood, a twolane road with snow piled up on both sides. The clock on her dashboard showed that it was after ten o’clock. Most people were either home in bed or propped up on a bar stool in their favorite tavern.
Headlights in her rearview mirror caught her attention. They seemed to be approaching too fast. The bright high beams came closer. Like two shining eyes, glaring.
The muscles in her leg tightened as she pressed down on the accelerator. In seconds, the speedometer read fiftyfive, which wasn’t an unreasonable speed for this straight road across an open meadow—unless she hit an icy patch.
The vehicle behind her matched her pace, staying a few lengths behind. Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road ahead. There were no houses close to the road. No ready escape.
Her usually reliable Jeep station wagon jostled and jolted. She felt a clunk. A fierce vibration rattled the frame.
A flat tire.
The steering wheel jerked in her hands. She had to slow down. There was no other choice.
She wanted to believe that the driver of that truck meant her no harm, that the hate-filled face she’d seen at the house was only an illusion, that Michael’s story about a serial killer was crazy.
But if she was wrong…she was a dead woman.
Breathing hard, Brooke pulled over at a wide spot in the road, parking next to a pile of snow left behind by the plow. Dread crashed over her. Panic came roaring back with the force of an avalanche.
She watched as the truck that had been behind her swept past. Just that quickly, the other vehicle was gone.
The truck hadn’t been following her. She was safe. Throwing off her seat belt, she took a deep breath and waited for the panic to subside. Now all she had to do was deal with a flat, find a place to stay and hang on to her sanity.
The shortcut to Glenwood Springs wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere—but close enough. The nearest house lights appeared to be at least a mile away. She could hike there, but she hesitated to leave the safety of her car. Walking through the night, she’d be vulnerable.
Another set of headlights shone through the windshield. Was he coming back? She squinted through the night. The lights were too low to be a truck. It was a different vehicle, maybe someone who could help her. People who lived in the mountains tended to be understanding about car problems. She might be able to flag them down.
The headlights came closer. Her fingers closed around the door handle. If she jumped out and waved, the other car would surely stop. Ask for help. Get yourself out of this mess.
She withdrew her hand, unwilling to play the role of a helpless Southern belle. In her experience, it wasn’t smart to depend on the kindness of strangers.
The car zoomed past without slowing.
Being alone was good. She could take care of herself. She could change the tire…or at least call someone who could. Handling the situation by herself would help her reclaim control of her life. A false claim, for sure. She had no control. Zero.
She pounded her fist on the steering wheel. Her house was a crime scene. Her roommate was dead. And she was the target of a serial killer. No reason to fall apart, right? Be rational. Focus on the present.
Her first consideration was the flat tire. She’d bought these tires only a few weeks ago because they were guaranteed to do well in snow, and she’d been driving on them long enough that she didn’t think they were defective. How had she gotten a flat? Had someone sabotaged her tire?
Another car approached. Instead of passing, it slowed and parked behind her. Coming to help? Or coming to hurt her?
Frantically, she cranked the ignition. Even if it meant driving on the rim, she had to escape.
Someone tapped on the glass. She looked up and saw Michael outside her window. “Let’s go, Brooke.”
She didn’t want his help. She rolled down her window. “I have a flat.”
His hand rested on the butt of his gun as he stared down the road. Then he leaned down to her level. “Somebody disabled your vehicle. They wanted you stranded. Get out of the car, and come with me.”
Only seconds ago, she’d considered the same conclusion. Her flat tire wasn’t a coincidence. Neither was the fact that Michael was here. “Did you follow me?”
“Damn right.”
She hated to have him hovering around like some sort of aggravating guardian angel, but it would be silly not to take advantage of his presence. She opened the car door and grabbed her backpack. “I’d appreciate a ride into town. I can get one of the guys from the gas station to come fix the flat.”
“Sure.” He grasped her arm and guided her toward his sedan.
“I can walk on my own, Michael.”
“Then you’d best walk fast,” he said. “No point in standing here like a target.”
“No point at all,” she agreed.
She ran to the passenger side of his SUV and climbed inside. Michael hit the gas, and they zoomed away. He kept checking his mirrors, alert to any approaching threat.
In spite of the snow and icy spots, they shot down the road, fast but controlled. She liked the way he drove, his hands strong and confident on the wheel. With satisfaction, she noticed that he was wearing the black leather gloves he’d bought on her recommendation. Like everything in the boutique, the gloves were very expensive, and she’d been a bit surprised that a cop from Birmingham could afford the exorbitant price.
“My best guess,” he said, “is that the killer punched a hole in your tire, causing a slow leak.”
“When could he have done that?”
“Right after you arrived at your house. Or maybe he waited until later and shot a bullet into the tire. There was a lot of confusion.”
“I didn’t hear gunfire.”
“Silencer,” he said. “He could have done it when you pulled up at the stop sign. You sat there for a good, long while. I could see your tail lights when I was trying to get out of the driveway.”
Though he was talking about a serial killer with a gun, she felt the band of tension squeezing her lungs begin to loosen. Breathing came more easily. In the