Run on Red by Noelle W. Ihili
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Title: Run on Red
Author: Noelle W. Ihili
Genre: Thriller
Chapter 1
AUGUST, 2006
“They’re still tailgating us,” I murmured, squinting into the lone pair of headlights shining through the back windshield. The sequins on my halter top caught on the lap belt, snicking like ticker tape as I shifted in the passenger seat.
“Maybe it’s the Green River Killer,” Laura said evenly, keeping her eyes on the road.
I snorted but kept watching as the headlights crept closer. “They caught the Green River Killer. I thought you read that blog I sent.”
“It was twenty pages long. Anyway, why do I need a crime blog when I have Olivia Heath in my car?” she asked. As she slowed down to take the next hairpin turn, the watery yellow headlights behind us turned a pale orange where they mingled with our brake lights.
I ignored her and kept staring at the headlights that had been tailgating us relentlessly for miles on the dark rural highway.
Everything is fine, I chided myself. There were “No Passing” signs posted every other switchback on the narrow road, and our ancient Volvo was going ten miles under the speed limit as we chugged uphill. Of course they were tailgating us.
When I blinked, two mirror-image red spots flashed behind my eyelids. It was impossible to see the drivers—and I was getting car sick. I glared into the headlights a little longer and committed the license plate to memory: 2C GR275.
“Liv? Earth to Liv. They’re probably late to the bonfire. Same as us.” Laura was the Scully to my Mulder: ever the optimist, ever reasonable. Ever the one who talked me down from my imaginary ledges. But the question always tapped at the back of my mind: What if there really was a ledge?
“The license plate does say GR,” I grumbled, but turned around, smoothing down my wonky sequins and drawing in a slow breath to calm my sloshing stomach.
“GR?” Laura prodded, glancing at me as we came out of the curve.
“Green River,” I clarified with an exaggerated sigh. “Or Gary Ridgway, same guy. Go easy on the turns.” I rested one hand out the uneven window ledge, so the cool night air hit my face in a slap that smelled like sage.
The Volvo’s passenger-side window had collapsed inside the doorframe a few weeks earlier. Laura’s sister Tish had talked about taping up a sheet of plastic in the hole, but since the car didn’t have air conditioning, the window just stayed open. I rubbed at a smattering of goosebumps on my bare arms. I should have brought a jacket. The hills were at least twenty degrees cooler than the city, but I’d been too rushed—and too sweaty—after work to care.
The bonfire at the reservoir had started more than an hour ago, and as far as I could tell we were the only car on the road—aside from the tailgaters. Laura had waited until my shift ended at the Pie Hole to make the tedious, winding drive through the hills.
The interior of the Volvo grew brighter as the headlights edged closer. Laura glanced in the rearview mirror. When I craned my neck to do the same, she sent me a warning glare. “Stay facing forward. The only thing you need to worry about is not getting barf on Tish’s car.” She flicked the fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. “I can’t believe she bailed on us again tonight.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, even as my stomach lurched dangerously. I inhaled slowly through my nose to stave off the nausea. “But—”
“Breathe, Liv,” she soothed. “They just want to pass us. I’ll find somewhere to pull over.”
“There’s nowhere to pull over,” I mumbled, wishing I’d gone to the library with Tish instead of “putting myself out there” tonight. “And this is definitely a no-passing zone.” The isolated two-lane rural highway made me nervous, even in the daytime.
“Look, right there.” Laura signaled and angled the Volvo toward a shallow gravel pullout carved into the hillside to our right.
The headlights stayed behind us, moving toward the same shoulder at a crawl.
“Why aren’t they passing?” I demanded, even while I scolded myself for overreacting. I didn’t trust my anxious brain to correctly identify a real threat. It had steered me wrong way too many times.
As soon as the words left my lips, a vehicle with one headlight out—only the second car we’d seen since leaving city limits—whipped into view. It passed us from behind, going way too fast and nearly clipping the driver’s side mirror of the Volvo. Once its brake lights disappeared around the next bend, the tailgaters eased back onto the road and zipped past us as well.
Within a few seconds, the hills were dark and quiet again, except for the Volvo’s idling mutter.
“See? They were just letting that idiot pass,” Laura insisted triumphantly, flashing me a grin before hitting the gas and easing back onto the road. “No serial killers.”
When I didn’t respond, her eyes flicked toward me. “Have you heard anything from Tish?”
Shaking off the useless adrenaline rush, I sighed and reached down the front of my high-waisted denim cut-offs to open the slim traveler’s pouch where I’d tucked my cell phone. Laura snickered at the sound of the zipper.
I ignored her and flipped open the phone. “You know she hasn’t texted. You just wanted to see me open the magic fanny pack.” I snapped the elastic of the traveler’s pouch, tucked just beneath the top button of my shorts, for emphasis. “My pockets can hold half a Saltine, at most. Where the hell am I supposed to put my cell phone when I go out?”
“And your rape whistle, and your pepper spray,” Laura chirped.
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “You really should read the blog.”
My phone screen showed one service bar. I didn’t have any new messages, but I took the opportunity to text Tish the car’s license plate: 2C GR275. Just in case.
She wouldn’t see it until she got home from the library later tonight. And even then, she wouldn’t think anything of the text unless the apartment was still empty in the morning. Tish—like Laura—had come to expect the occasional license plate number—or blurry photo of some rando at the gas station who looked like a police sketch I’d seen on Twitter.
Laura shifted in the driver’s seat to face me. “You know, we can turn around if you want,” she offered gently, the bright white of her teeth slowly disappearing with her smile. “If you’re not feeling up for the bonfire—”
“I’m good,” I insisted more gruffly than I intended, avoiding her eyes. I could deal with jokes about my red-alert texts and travel pouch and rape whistle. But any hint of sympathy for the underbelly of my social anxiety ... not so much.
I zipped my cell phone back into the slim travel pouch, refusing to imagine the last bar of cell service flickering out as we drove deeper into the hills. Then I reached over and turned the volume knob on the ancient boombox propped between us, where the glove box in the old Volvo used to live. It was an indestructible monstrosity, like the Volvo itself. I absolutely loved it.
“I did not wear scratchy sequins to turn around and go home,” I sang off-key over Britney Spears. Laura had spent hours making this party mix, first downloading the songs, then burning them to a CD, then recording the CD onto a tape that would play in the ridiculous boombox.
Laura’s smile brightened. “Atta girl.”
Synopsis of Run on Red
A rural country road. No cell signal for miles. A terrifying game of cat-and-mouse.
By the time Laura and Olivia notice the headlights tailing them through the hills, it’s too late. What seems, at first, like a case of road rage quickly unfolds into a heart-pounding chase—and a battle for survival.
Who are the men in the truck? What do they want? And can Laura and Olivia outrun—and outsmart—them long enough to call for help, even if it means taking their chances in the hills on foot?
As their situation grows more perilous, the girls realize that the real terror has only just begun. But flight won’t save them from their pursuers. If they’re going to make it home alive, they'll have to fight.
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