Chapter 2

My Mustang. I'd saved for two years, working double shifts at the bakery, to buy that car. A 1968 Ford Mustang, cherry red, my dream. It wasn't just a car; it was freedom, independence.

Last time, I'd handed the keys to Jessica without a second thought. She was my best friend, my college roommate. Of course, I'd lend her my car.

She'd driven it to the Desert Bloom festival, just like she planned to now. On the way back, on a dark stretch of state route, she'd been drunk. Speeding.

She hit a man, Mr. Harrison, a retired teacher whose car had broken down. Killed him instantly.

Panic. That's what she must have felt. But not remorse.

Because Jessica, my "best friend," didn't call the cops. She didn't call an ambulance.

She took my driver's license – which she must have swiped from my wallet sometime before – and planted it in the Mustang's glove compartment. Then she and Mike, my loving boyfriend, concocted their story.

They told the state troopers they found later that I had been driving. That I had confessed to them in a hysterical fit.

My license. My car. My two closest people pointing the finger.

My denials were useless, drowned out by their calculated lies and Jessica's convincing tears.

The victim's son, Victor "Vic" Ramirez, didn't wait for a trial. He was a local biker, connected, with a rap sheet as long as his arm and a temper to match.

He and his crew found me. They didn't want money, not then. They wanted revenge.

They dragged me from my apartment. The pain was blinding, sharp, endless. They left me on the side of the highway, broken. The last thing I saw were the headlights of a semi bearing down.

My body was never even recovered, just pieces.

And now, I was back. Back before the blood, before the betrayal, before the agony.

The memory was so vivid, so raw, it felt like I was still there, the phantom pain echoing through my limbs.

I looked at Jessica, her face a mask of innocent confusion. I looked at Mike, his brow furrowed with feigned concern for her disappointment.

The rage that simmered inside me was a living thing, hot and choking.

They wouldn't get away with it. Not this time.