Keeping an eye on the road ahead and on the rearview mirror, Lane watched the cars race up behind her. A white sports car was driving in the lane next to her, going the opposite direction of traffic. A darker car, maybe it was blue, drove up right behind her. The driver flashed his lights at her like she was the one breaking the law.

Lane blew out a frustrated breath. What did he want her to do? There was nowhere for her to go. The driver of the white car pulled up next to her and mirrored her speed. Even if Lane dared to peek out her window, she could see from the corner of her eye that the driver was hidden behind black tinted windows.

The white car surged forward and pulled in front of her. The dark car behind Lane’s Jeep swerved into the lane on her left and shot forward, leaving her in its dust. Her hands were sweating and her heart was pounding. Why did people have to drive so recklessly? She peeked over her shoulder to find Noah had fallen asleep. Thank—

Lane slammed on her brakes, her seat belt crushing her against her seat. The white car and the dark one—blue—were stopped in both lanes in front of her. The smell of burnt rubber filled her car and Noah woke up.

“Momma, my chair is squishing me.”

Before Lane could respond, both cars shot forward like the green flag had just been dropped. Lane swallowed the mouthful of words she wanted to spit at the drivers. It was a miracle there were no other drivers on the road with her or there would certainly be an accident. Maybe she should call it in to the sheriff . . . or Charlie.

The idea of hearing Charlie’s voice immediately slowed Lane’s racing pulse and she wasn’t sure it was a safe thing for him to have such control—even if he didn’t know it. Lane continued on the road and waited to be sure the racing cars were not coming back. After a few minutes, she picked up her phone and dialed the number to the sheriff’s station, allowing a flame of hope to flicker inside her chest that Charlie would be the one to answer.

“Walton County Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Benningfield speaking.”

“Hi, Deputy Benningfield,” Lane said, biting back the disappointment she felt. “This is Lane Kent. I’m driving south on Old Ogeechee Road and I wanted to report two cars that were racing and almost drove me off the road.”

“Oh dear. You said on Old Ogeechee Road? Can you tell me what mile marker you’re near?”

Lane looked around her but didn’t see one. “I’m driving toward Ogeechee Highway . . . I can tell you in a second—oh no.”

“Lane?”