From the corner of her eye, she saw something move, a dark and skittering image in the spiderweb of the rearview mirror.

The back of her throat went bone dry.

Oh, God. The person she’d seen moments before.

The cause of the accident.

She glared into the mirror, tried to make out the idiot who had caused this wreck. The damned moron was behind her car, barely visible, but definitely there. And now moving to the center of the road.

As if to block her path again.

Still risking both their lives.

Megan’s temper spiked. What kind of a cretin would—

She threw open the door just as a cautionary Be careful cut through her mind. “Are you out of your mind?” she screamed, craning her neck for a better view. “Get out of the way! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

No movement.

Nothing but bitter cold air.

And the silent whiteout.

No person.

Just the eerie quiet, broken only by the rasp of the Corolla’s engine.

The warning hairs on the back of her neck raised.

Had it all been her imagination?

No, of course not.

She pulled the door shut and was about to back up when she saw the figure again. Right in the middle of the road . . . again. Almost taunting her.

What the hell was this?

It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s weird as hell. Not good. Get out. Get out now!

She swallowed back her rising fear.

What if the person needs a ride? What if they’re stranded?

“Who cares?” she muttered. It wasn’t as if the jerk-wad was waving her down, trying to get help. No, this was something else.

Something very wrong.

Something evil.

She touched her toe to the gas again.

Her damaged car struggled, wheels spinning.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered, her panic rising. She had to get out of here now. Her phone, where the hell was her phone? No time to search for it. “Let’s go,” she said to the car as the engine ground, the wheels spun, and she went nowhere. “Let’s go, let’s—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the side-view mirror.

The person in black was approaching!

Now she trod on the accelerator. “Come on!”

Closer. Through the curtain of snow, a figure dressed in ski gear from head to toe—mask and hat to boots—made his or her way along the side of the whining car.

Megan let up on the gas, then hit it hard. The back end of the car shifted a bit, but the tires found no traction.

The person was right outside the door, and Megan was ready to yell at the cretin, to read the brain-dead idiot the riot act, when she noticed the gun, a black pistol in one gloved hand.

Oh. God.