Page 11 of Death Rydes Shotgun

“You know my name. It’s only fair you give me yours.” I force my voice to stay level as I navigate a gentle curve in the road.

“Ryder,” he says simply.

I wait for a last name, a background, a brief explanation of why he was walking along a dead stretch of highway at dusk with suspicious stains on his clothes since he knows so much about me. But he offers nothing. He just sits there, an immovable mountain of dark intent, watching me read him.

“Just Ryder?” My lips twitch in the dark with a faint, daring smile.

“Just Ryder.” He leans toward the center console again, invading my space, his large frame casting a heavy shadow over the gear shift. “Tell me something, Harmony. Do you usually pick up strangers on the side of dark highways?”

The question drops into the space between us like a dead body.

My muscles turn rigid, and I swallow down the thick lump forming in my throat.

In an instant, my thoughts are thrust backward, pulled fifteen years into the past.

The crunch of gravel.

The blinding glare of headlights cutting through thick fog.

The smell of cheap vodka and freezing rain.

Noah’s terrified, squeaky voice echoing in the backseat while Tre, Bryan, and Blaire laughed.

The cold terror of realizing we had gone too far.

The morning announcement.

The intercom crackling.

The others who wound up dead, since Noah.

Mostly quiet, forgotten drifters over the years.

As well as strangers we picked up along this exact stretch of road when the Halloween air turned bitter.

The adrenaline of taking the wrong turns, of playing the game, of pushing them right to the edge of sanity.

My silence stretches long and heavy between us in the cabin of the car. The only sound apart from our breathing is the unnaturally loud crunch of the tires on the asphalt.

“Harmony?” Ryder prompts, pulling me back to the present.

He tilts his head, his menacing eyes narrowing as he studies the tension locked in my shoulders.

I blink several times, forcing the ghostly memory of Noah back into the dark corner of my mind where it belongs.

After clearing my throat, I give him a cool, unbothered side-eye. “No. I don’t usually pick up strangers.”

Ryder doesn’t move. He doesn’t nod. He just holds his gaze on me, so sharp it feels as if a blade is pressing against my ribs.

Shit. Does he not believe me?

His lips curve slowly and dangerously, while his black eyes maintain a fixed, intense stare.

The realization sets my skin on fire, a dizzying mix of panic and profound, sick attraction.

He knows I’m lying, but how?

How could he possibly know something like that?