The blue lights appeared in Rachel Borowski's rearview mirror somewhere south of Silverwood.
She wasn't speeding. She knew she wasn't speeding—the Escape's speedometer had been steady at sixty-two for the last ten miles, and the limit was sixty-five. But she eased off the gas anyway, the way you do when you see those lights, guilty or not.
The cruiser stayed behind her. No siren. Just the lights, painting the wet pavement in alternating blue.
"Shit."
Rachel checked her mirrors again. The road was empty in both directions—nothing but darkness and the faint glow of distant farms. M-24 at night was like driving through a tunnel with no end.
She pulled onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under her tires. The Escape's wipers continued their steady rhythm against the light rain. She put it in park but left the engine running—something her father had taught her years ago. Never turn off your car on the side of the road at night. You might need to leave in a hurry.
The cruiser pulled in behind her. In the mirror, she could see a figure stepping out, flashlight in hand. Tall. Broad shoulders. The beam swept across her back window, then settled on her side mirror, blinding her.
She rolled down her window. The rain had mostly stopped, but the air was cold and smelled like wet asphalt and something else—something chemical, like cleaning supplies.
"Evening, ma'am."
The voice was calm. Professional. The flashlight stayed in her eyes.
"Was I speeding? I didn't think I was—"
"No, ma'am. You've got a tail light out. Driver's side."
"Oh." Relief loosened something in her chest. Just a tail light. "I didn't know. I'll get it fixed tomorrow."
"I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle."
The relief curdled. "Step out? For a tail light?"
"Standard procedure, ma'am. Won't take but a minute."
Rachel hesitated. Something felt wrong—the words were right, but the tone wasn't. Too flat. Too rehearsed. And why couldn't she see his face? The flashlight made it impossible to see anything beyond that blinding circle of white.
"Can I see some ID first?"
A pause. The flashlight didn't waver.
"Ma'am, I need you to step out of the vehicle. Now."
Her hand moved toward the gear shift. Some instinct, some whisper from the back of her brain where the old fears lived, told her to drive. Just drive. Floor it and don't look back and call 911 and explain later.
But she didn't. Because he was a cop. Because the lights were real and the uniform was real and you don't run from cops, not if you're a thirty-three-year-old woman with a clean record and nothing to hide. You comply. You trust the system.
She opened the door.
The cold hit her immediately. She'd kicked off her flats while driving—a habit she'd never been able to break—and the gravel bit into her feet through her thin socks.
"Ma'am, I need you to come with me to the vehicle."
She turned toward the voice, squinting against the flashlight. Behind it, she could just make out the shape of a van—white or light gray—parked behind the cruiser. That wasn't right. That wasn't right at all.
"What—"
The hand that closed around her arm was gloved. The cloth that covered her face smelled like the chemical in the air—sharp and sweet and wrong.
Rachel Borowski had time for one thought before the darkness took her:
Dad was right.