Chelsea’s voice, panicked and afraid, mewled through the phone like the wounded howl of a wolf—petrified, fighting to break free when there was nowhere to go. “The mother-effer is trying to force me off the road!”
A wave of guilt gripped me. I shouldn’t be here in Murphy’s office, waiting, incapable of helping her. I should have gone to her. Every agonizing second now was precious. Every second could save her life. It could also end it.
“Chelsea, what’s happening?” I asked. “Talk to me.”
“I have to pull over. I don’t have a choice. I have to!”
“No!”
I faced Murphy. “Why aren’t your guys there yet? How long does it take?!”
“They will be, anytime now,” he said.
Eyes wide, he glared at me, no doubt a nonverbal cue meant to warn me not to increase Chelsea’s anxiety level any more than necessary. I didn’t care. I wasn’t an optimist. I was a realist. “Any minute now might be too late.”
The sound of glass shattering echoed through the phone. A car door opened and slammed shut.
“Chelsea, are you there?” I asked. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”
“The car door behind me just opened. Someone’s coming!” she screamed.
“Can you get away?”
Sirens whistled in the background.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Get away!”
A shot cracked through my phone’s speaker, and the line went dead.