I squeeze my eyes shut a long moment, and before I’m forced to make a decision, my phone makes it for me, the battery dying.

Shoving it back in my bag, I walk the last two miles to my house.

My morning begins before dawn, courtesy of a hard knock on the door, two men in uniform on the other side of it. They ask me questions about my car and where I was last night.

I play dumb and claim to have been home since school the day before.

They let me know my car was totaled. Apparently, they found it in a ditch, every inch of it up in flames, and it appeared to have been chopped for parts, the stereo as well as navigation being the few examples they gave.

It takes all my effort not to smile.

Of course, he didn’t simply wait there for the cops to arrive.

As my eyes lift again, one of the officers, the younger, beefier one, narrows his, and I square my shoulders in response.

It was ‘stolen,’ what is there for me to be concerned about?

“Miss Filano.” He drags my name out as long as possible. “Mind if we see the keys, so we can note that you have them in our report. It will make everything nice and clear for the insurance claim.”

Shit.

“Yeah.” My response is a little rushed, and I nod, the door already closing as I begin to slink away. “Just... give me a second to grab them.”

My back hits the wall the moment I close the cops outside, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I hiss, flying into the kitchen, and begin to pace, my hands tearing through my hair, trying to think, when a flash of black catches my eye.

I whip around and my breath freezes in my throat.

The bay doors leading to the back are wide open, a light breeze carrying the curtains into the house, and just outside of it... Ransom.

His glare is heavy, angry, and tipped low.

Dirt lines his jaw, what looks like blood is dried to his right brow, and he’s wearing the same clothes from the day before.

His arm comes up, his hand opening, and inside his palm, dangling from one finger... my keys.

My eyes widen and I dart forward, but as I reach him, reaching for them, his fist closes.

He backs away and a lump forms in my throat. I’m about to vomit, or scream, but then he tosses them against my chest.

A clipped huff leaves me, and I jolt, prepared to run back, but as I get a better look at him, my bare feet root in place.

His face is pulled tight, his body rigid, as if he’s on the verge of... I don’t know what.