Chapter 2

Frank's hand drifted toward the small of his back and stopped.

His fingers fumbled under his shirt for a second, then slowly withdrew. Nobody could tell if he'd actually touched something back there, or nothing at all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught someone nearby slowing down to watch.

He froze, staring at me, chest heaving.

Then he made his decision.

"Are you out of your mind?! Why the hell would you call the cops?!"

Frank completely lost it. He didn't run. Instead, he did something nobody saw coming.

He dropped.

Down onto his knees, right in the cold Seattle rain, directly in front of my Porsche's hood.

"Everybody, look at this! This rich woman is trying to destroy me!"

Frank wailed like his heart was breaking, pounding his fists against the wet pavement.

"I'm just trying to get to the hospital to see my dying mother! I told her I'd pay for everything, I even offered her my car as collateral! And she's calling the police anyway—she's going to make sure I miss my mom's last moments on this earth!"

The accident had already blocked the lane, and traffic behind us was backing up. More and more drivers and pedestrians climbed out of their cars to see what was happening.

Frank's pitiful sobbing set the crowd on fire.

"Oh my God, that poor man." A middle-aged woman walked over, her face full of sympathy for Frank, then shot me a look of pure venom.

"Young lady, you've got some nerve." An old white man in a windbreaker rapped his knuckles on my hood. "The guy's literally on his knees and you can't let it go? You're driving a Porsche, for Christ's sake—like you can't afford the repair bill?"

"Seriously! Where's your compassion? What if it was your mother dying?"

A few younger people had already pulled out their phones, TikTok cameras rolling, lenses aimed straight at my window.

"Guys, check this out," one of them said to the camera. "This is what capitalism looks like—Karen in a Porsche making some poor guy beg in the rain just to see his dying mom."

Camera flashes fired one after another. The insults piled up.

Frank knelt there, head bowed, crying—but from where I sat, looking down at him through the windshield, I caught the corner of his mouth twitch. A smug little smile.

He was gambling. Betting that I couldn't stomach the crowd.

He's smiling... he's a monster... that's exactly how he lured me into his car...

Sarah's voice echoed through the cabin again, thick with old grief.

Shut up. Watch how I handle this, I told her silently.

The shouting outside didn't rattle me, not even slightly. I didn't step out to defend myself.

The best response to moral blackmail is to refuse to engage with it at all.

I locked every door and stared out at the mob standing on their imaginary moral high ground.

"She locked the doors! She knows she's guilty!" The woman with the Starbucks cup screamed louder. "Everybody get her plates! Post it online! Let the whole world see who she really is!"

"Go ahead." I finally hit the intercom button, and my voice, flat and cold, cut through the noise outside.

"Get a good shot of your own faces while you're at it. I've already called the police. They'll be here in three minutes. If this man is really in such a hurry to get to a hospital, he's welcome to leave his car right here and call an Uber. I won't stop him. So why is he so desperate for me to drive off in his car instead?"

That landed. The crowd went quiet for half a second.

"I—I'm broke! I don't have a dime on me!" Frank snapped back into his performance, laying it on thick.

"You're broke, but you just promised me an extra ten thousand dollars in cash?" I didn't let the contradiction slide. "If you're really in this much of a hurry, you'd already be halfway to the hospital by now instead of kneeling here putting on a show for me."

Frank's face changed color. Something ugly and panicked flashed behind his eyes.

"You're full of it! You cold-hearted bitch!"

"Knock yourself out." I leaned back against my seat, my eyes cold enough to freeze blood.

"I'm not getting out of this car, and I'm not touching yours. Save your sob story for the cops. And if you so much as put a finger on my window, I will floor it and call it self-defense."

My voice wasn't loud, but it carried enough weight that nobody in earshot mistook it for a bluff.

The crowd flinched under the ice in my stare. A few of the kids holding up their phones took an involuntary step back.

That's when the sound reached us—sirens, sharp and rising, cutting through the rain.

Two squad cars, lights strobing red and blue, tore through the downpour toward us.

Frank, still on his knees, shuddered violently. His eyes locked onto mine and didn't move.