And then they pulled to a full stop in the darkest, most hidden section of the rest stop, shielded by a metal railing and low trees from the rest of the highway.

The man put the vehicle in park, and—for a moment—it seemed like he was double-checking the doors were locked. Then, smiling, he turned to face her.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Ilse could feel her heart in her throat. Her pulse quickened under the ogling gaze of the truck driver. “I’m not comfortable,” she said, softly.

“Ah, come on. No need to be like that,” he replied, watching her with an unblinking gaze from beneath his baseball cap.

Ilse glanced in the mirror, looking over her shoulder, swallowing.

“Hey, so it was really nice of me to stop and pick you up, right?” the man said, quietly. “Really nice,” he repeated, emphasizing the words.

Her heart hammered. This was him. This was the guy, and this was what she’d wanted. Stupid. So stupid. But intended. Her voice cracked, caught between terror and anticipation. “Unlock the doors.”

“I will. Of course I will. What do you think—I’m some sort of creep? Nah… Look, just—it gets lonely out at night, driving around. You said you were out for some air. Some exercise too, yeah?” He nodded, watching her, his face illuminated faintly by the moon alone, his shadowed features strained and rigid. His breathing had become more like a pant.

Ilse reached for the lock. But he suddenly reached out as well, snaring her fingers.

“Now, hang on!” he said. His grip was tight, painful. “Look. I just want a little bit of exercise myself. We can both get what we want. Your lips are a lot like my ex’s. Come here… No, stop—come closer!”

He squeezed hard, crushing her fingers and trying to drag her near him. At that moment, Ilse’s other hand ripped from her pocket and she yelled, racking the ring of sharp keys across the man’s face. He howled like a wounded cat, letting go all of a sudden and reeling back, reaching up and grasping at his cheek and eye. “Bitch!” he yelled.

Ilse pulled the lock and kicked open the door. The man wasn’t done though. Bleeding from the gash along his eye, he unbuckled and scrambled after her, his fingers grabbing at the sleeve of her sweater.

“Come here!” he yelled. A bully, a bastard—just like they all were. The ones who sent her clients. The ones who created them. She felt a jolt of sheer rage at his words, of satisfaction at the blood streaking his face. Her hand bunched again, wrapping around the keys.

Just then, there came a sudden whining noise, followed by a flash of red and blue.

Ilse pulled up, gasping, pushing the man’s fingers from her sleeve and retreating to the side of the metal divider.

She watched as the unmarked police car pulled sharply into the rest stop, skidding on the asphalt-strewn ground and coming to a full halt.