Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT DRIVER
Grief and guilt are paralyzing poisons, but panic is pure, unadulterated fuel.
I scrambled up from the snow-covered steps of Claire’s building, gathering the scattered papers back into the envelope. My tears had frozen against my cheeks, turning to sharp crystals of ice that cut into my skin. I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore—not the firm, not my pride, not the debt, not Rachel. Nothing in the universe existed except the frail, failing heart of the woman I had driven into the cold.
I ran back to my SUV, threw the envelope onto the passenger seat, and grabbed my cracked phone.
How had she left?
The doorbell footage showed a silver sedan. A rideshare.
I opened the rideshare application on my phone. We shared a family profile on Uber and Lyft. If Emma had used the joint account, the ride history would be logged.
I tapped the screen with trembling fingers. The family profile history loaded: *Empty.*
She had anticipated that. She had used a guest account or a different service entirely.
Wait. The car in the footage had an illuminated decal in the rear passenger window. It wasn't the pink mustache of Lyft or the black box of Uber. It had been a circular blue emblem.
*MetroCab Cityline.* A local, independent taxi fleet that catered specifically to suburban commuters who preferred cash or direct dispatch.
I dialed MetroCab’s emergency dispatch line.
A gravelly, sleep-deprived voice answered after four rings. “MetroCab, holiday dispatch. Expect severe delays due to the storm.”
“Listen to me!” I shouted into the mic. “This is a matter of life and death. My wife was picked up by one of your drivers last night at 1:18 a.m. from 412 Crestview Lane. She is eight months pregnant and suffering from a critical cardiac emergency!”
“Sir, company policy strictly prohibits sharing passenger manifests or driver information—”
“Her name is Emma Vance!” I roared, slamming my fist against the steering wheel. “Her heart is failing! If that driver dropped her off in the snow, or if she was taken somewhere without medical care, she could be dead within hours! I am her husband, and I will hold your dispatch company criminally liable for gross negligence if you hang up this phone!”
There was a long pause on the other end. The sound of shifting papers, followed by the clatter of a coffee mug.
“412 Crestview Lane?” the dispatcher asked, his tone shifting from bureaucratic indifference to sudden alertness. “Silver Toyota Camry?”
“Yes! Yes, a silver sedan!”
“Hold on.”
Muffled voices drifted over the line. Keys clacking.
“Driver unit 42. Frank Miller,” the dispatcher said slowly. “He logged that pickup at 1:14 a.m. He was supposed to go off shift at two, but he called in an emergency transport log around two-thirty.”
“Where did he take her? Did he take her to Mercy Hospital?”
“No,” the dispatcher replied. “The drop-off wasn't in the city. The ticket was logged for a long-distance private charter. Route 9 North. Out toward the Pine Ridge county line.”
Pine Ridge.
The name hit me like a physical blow. Pine Ridge was a secluded, mountainous region three hours north of the city. It was where Emma’s grandmother had owned an old, timber-frame cabin on the edge of Whispering Lake—a property Emma had inherited after her grandmother passed away four years ago.
We hadn't been there in nearly two years. The cabin had no central heating—only a stone fireplace and an old wood-burning stove. The roads leading up the mountain were notoriously treacherous in winter, often completely unplowed during major blizzards.
“Did he drop her off at a residence?” I demanded, jamming the SUV into drive.
“The log says the driver had to pull off near the Pine Ridge turnoff because of downed power lines and drifted snow,” the dispatcher said, his voice dropping into grave concern. “Unit 42 radioed in that the passenger insisted on being met by a second vehicle at the junction near the old service depot. A four-wheel-drive truck picked her up from there.”
“Who was driving the truck?”
“I don't know, buddy. Driver just logged the transfer and headed back down the mountain before the pass was closed by the state troopers. That was at 3:45 a.m. As of twenty minutes ago, the Department of Transportation closed Route 9 completely. Nobody gets up that mountain right now.”
“I do,” I whispered.
May you like
I slammed the phone down onto the console, threw the SUV into reverse, spun the wheel, and floored the accelerator. The tires caught traction with a violent shudder, spraying brown slush across the avenue as I rocketed north toward the highway.
***
