“It worked,” she retorted.

For a moment, she thought she saw the silver-haired agent grin and tug at the brim of his baseball cap as he pushed the wheezing trucker past her. “Mhmm.”

She watched as he leveraged the man into the back of the car. Ilse found she could breathe a bit easier now, found that the breeze along the highway felt lighter, more airy. Found, even now, that her feet weren’t so stuck to the ground. Her memories weren’t so haunting.

There was something about facing one’s fears… Something about coming out on top. About fighting back.

Stupid, perhaps. But strangely necessary, if she was honest with herself.

Besides, stupid or not, she’d caught the killer. Ilse watched as Sawyer returned to the front seat of his sedan, glancing at her. He waved a hand in her direction. “Need a ride back to your car?” he muttered.

For the second time that night, Ilse paused, considering the same request. But then she nodded once. “Yeah… Yeah, that’d be great.”

This time, as she sidled into the front seat, she didn’t feel fear at all. The trucker, doubled over, gasping, and cuffed in the back seat, didn’t seem so threatening at all anymore. His truck’s lights were still on, the key in the ignition.

“Should we turn it off?” Ilse said, pointing at the vehicle. “The battery might die.”

“Mhmm.”

Sawyer pulled out of the rest stop, clicking off the whirring blue and red lights and guiding his vehicle along the road, back in the direction of her car.

***

Ilse peered through the gap in the open doorway of the interrogation room. Sawyer braced the door for a second, listening and watching as Sergeant Faber and another police officer pushed their suspect roughly into one of the chairs. His hands were still cuffed, and he was muttering furiously about police abuse, demanding a lawyer.

Beneath the bright lights, away from the darkened roads and the shadowed brim of his cap, the man wasn’t nearly so scary. He was young, for a start… Even younger than Ilse, by the look of things.

“Got it?” Sawyer called into the room.

Sergeant Faber flashed a thumbs-up in his direction, but then returned her attention to the suspect, giving just as good as she got. “Shut it,” she said, growling. “We found your knife. Your truck is being impounded as we speak.”

“He hit me!” the young man yelled. “That douchebag hit me!” He jutted his jaw toward Sawyer. Long, slick strands of oily hair tumbled past the man’s face. He even had a smattering of acne along his chin.

Ilse stood behind Sawyer, watching through the doorway as the man shook and twisted beneath the bright lights. Gone was the ominous, predatory leer. Gone were the innuendo and asinine remarks. Gone were the ogling and the panting breaths.

Now, the young man was whining like a child, shaking his greasy hair from side to side as he desperately pleaded his case, like a scolded kid.