The car veered off the pavement and onto the gravel shoulder. The sound of stones pinging off the car's underside brought Samantha back to full alertness. She steered back onto the highway, checking the rearview mirror to make sure no one else saw, but she was alone.
Her eyes lingered in the mirror for an extra moment. She took one hand off the steering wheel to pat her hair, making sure it hadn't spontaneously twisted itself into the curls of a little girl. She laughed and let her hand drop to the diet soda in the cup holder. After a long pull on the straw, she turned her attention back to the highway.
These simple grown-up activities like driving a car or buying an airline ticket still felt unfamiliar. In the Savannah airport she'd gaped up at the ceilings, marveling at how high they were. She walked with slouched shoulders and cautious steps among the crowds of bustling travelers, afraid someone wouldn't see her and knock her down. She approached the ticket counter with a nervous flutter and mumbled her order, afraid someone would tell her she couldn't fly without a parent or guardian and then drag her away by the ear for a stern lecture.
"It was only a dream," she told herself over and over again. Yet she couldn't bring herself to take even a brief nap on the airplane, afraid she might wake up in a crib. It's shock, she thought. The strange dream and Fitzgerald's death had rattled her nerves. Then why can't I remember anything?
No other doors to her memory had opened since seeing Fitzgerald's picture in the newspaper. She kept hoping for something to bring an avalanche of memories down upon her mind, but not even a pebble floated into her consciousness. It'll happen soon, she told herself with less hopefulness each time.
A sign along the highway indicated the town of Junction was five miles to the right. She almost missed the turn, the car grinding over the shoulder again before reconnecting with the pavement. Almost there, she thought.
When she got to Junction, then what? If she was too late the killer might have already struck. If not, then what could she do? She didn't have any idea who the killer intended to murder, or if he intended to kill anyone at all. For all she knew, this could be an elaborate hoax perpetrated by some prankster to send her on a wild goose chase among the cornfields of Iowa. If her supervisor didn't believe the threat credible, why should she?
No, something told her this wasn't a joke. Someone in Junction was going to die. She stepped on the accelerator, pushing the car even faster down the road.