White Out by Danielle Girard (Badlands Thriller #1)
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.3 MB
From the bestselling author of the Annabelle Schwartzman series comes a chilling story of a woman with a forgotten past and a town with dark secrets.
After surviving a car accident on an icy road in Hagen, North Dakota, Lily Baker regains consciousness with no idea where or who she is. Scattered Bible verses and the image of a man lying in a pool of blood haunt her memory.
The same night of the accident, a young woman is murdered and tossed in a dumpster. Kylie Milliard, Hagen’s only detective, doesn’t immediately recognize the victim, but Kylie soon discovers that Lily and the dead woman share a dark past…if only Lily could remember what it was.
Lily and Kylie both want answers. But Kylie has to play by the book. Lily has to play it safe. And the more Lily learns about her identity, the more she fears the truth.
A warm rush of adrenaline spiked in her chest as she ran her fingers along the line of credit cards. Several Visas, two AmEx. Take what’s easy. A stack of bills—crisp bills, meaning high denominations. How did she know? She slid the bills from his wallet and folded them, their hard edges sharp against her fist. A few hundred dollars, maybe more. She imagined a bottle of whiskey, something sweet. She was filled with pride. She’d done well.
“Now, get back. Don’t leave me here with him.” She imagined green eyes behind too-long bangs, felt the warmth of recognition. A name flashed in her head. Abby. Where was Abby?
The car lurched and pitched her forward, and the seat belt cut across her sternum. She froze, panting tiny breaths to avoid big motions. Through the windshield, she made out the twisted guardrail beside the car, the dark void beyond it.
The car rocked forward, and she held her breath. They had crashed on an overpass. The front of the car jutted over the edge. It would be—what—thirty or forty feet to the ground below? Or more? They would not survive the fall.
Her breath came in ragged chunks like violent hiccups that she tried to hold in. Stay calm. No big motions.
She leaned back against the seat, using her body weight to keep the car from tipping.
She had to get out. But Brent . . .
“Don’t help nobody. Don’t stop for nothing.” The voice again, angry and male.
She shook her head. No. She had to wake him up. Get him out. “Brent,” she said, her voice rusty in her throat. She gripped his forearm with all her strength, afraid shaking him would tip the car over the edge. “Come on.”
Fingers trembling, she pressed the button to unfasten her seat belt. The belt didn’t release. She jabbed harder, using only two fingers, keeping the motions controlled and small. Still, it stuck.
Terror clamped her throat and squeezed. Trapped. “No!” The word was sharp in her ears as she wrapped the belt around her hand for purchase. Clenching her jaw, she jammed three fingers into the release and jerked hard on the belt. It sprang free. The car tipped several inches, then slowly righted again.
She slapped Brent’s cheek, then pinched. “Come on. Come on. We’ve got to get out!”
He didn’t respond.
Get out; then go around and get him.
She edged toward the door, gripped the handle, and said a prayer that it would open. When the door cracked, she cried out in relief. The door swung open, and the car’s underside let out another howl as it slid forward an inch or two, then stopped, swaying gently. She froze until the car steadied.