Erica hesitated, glancing back at her phone again. “I’m fine,” she said, hesitantly. “I have a tow truck coming.”

“You sure?” said the same rasping voice. “I have a spare, and a jack. Looks like you have a flat.”

Erica felt a glimmer of hope. She glanced back at the ice cream cake. At the present on top. If she missed a birthday again, she knew her ex would bring it up in custody hearings. She felt a flicker of frustration and swallowed it back.

“You sure? I don’t mean to trouble you.”

“No trouble,” the voice replied. “Just hang tight.”

Erica moved around the side of her Camry, approaching the front of the truck.

She heard a soft thump as the driver hopped out of the car. The man had a low-angled hat, and he walked with a bit of a limp. He wasn’t particularly large, and she glimpsed a scar looping around the man’s left wrist, just above a glove.

He held a tool chest in one hand, and seemed indifferent to the rain.

“Oh, sir, here, let me help.” She hurried over, extending the umbrella over her good Samaritan.

The man just grunted though; he hefted the toolbox and then cleared his throat. “You don’t happen to have a lighter, do you?”

Erica coughed delicately, wondering if her car smelled of smoke. How embarrassing. “In the glove compartment. I’ve got it; one second.”

She opened the front of her car, leaning the umbrella against the support formed by the top of the vehicle and the door frame. Then she inclined across the front seat, her legs still out of the car, the rest of her bent over as she angled her fingers toward the glove compartment. She winced, groaning at the strain as she opened the box and began to rummage around, looking for the lighter.

She heard the thud of what she guessed was the toolbox being lowered. Behind her, she heard movement, the scrape of something metal, suggesting the toolbox was being opened. She’d seen people jack up a car before, but figured it probably would be best if she was out of the vehicle when it happened.

Her fingers scrabbled against the green plastic of the lighter, and she pulled it free. At that moment, though, something fluttered past her cheek.

She frowned, reaching instinctively as if to swat away a mosquito. Except there, against her chin, next to her shoulder, she found a pink slip of paper. A Post-it note.

She began to straighten up. “What’s this?” she began.

Before she had finished, though, she read the neat handwriting on the note. A small little smiley face adorned the top.

The note simply read, Ten seconds left. Scream for me, please. I’m about to kill you.

The raspy voice behind her murmured, “One… Two…”

Erica’s emotions took a moment to catch up with her reading comprehension. And then, fear jolted down her spine. She began to whirl around, but at the same moment, someone slammed the front door against the back of her legs, buckling them. She yelled in surprise and felt her umbrella crumple above her.