Rain lashed the windshield in heavy sheets, turning the city lights into long, trembling ribbons of color. Mireille Voss gripped the steering wheel of her battered silver sedan, knuckles white, her mind racing almost as quickly as the car itself. Each time she glanced in the rear view mirror, the same black sedan lurked behind her, headlights unwavering.
Mireille's heart thudded in her chest so loudly she wondered if it was louder than the storm. For hours, she'd circled the city, doubling back and taking random turns, hoping to lose the car shadowing her. Still, it followed, always two car-lengths behind, never overtaking or falling away.
She didn't dare slow down. Not after the message she'd found under her apartment door that morning:
"You know too much. Leave before it's too late."
She'd packed a bag with trembling hands, left her phone smashed in the kitchen sink, and driven away with no real plan except to survive.
The city was unfamiliar at night. Buildings loomed close, their windows glowing with the soft light of other people's safe, ordinary lives. Mireille felt like she was watching the world from behind glass, part of it but not truly in it. She was an outsider now, a ghost slipping through the rain.
A traffic light flashed yellow. Mireille pressed the gas, shooting through the intersection just as it turned red. The black sedan did the same, tires hissing on the wet road.
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She thought about calling the police, but she had no phone, and besides, she couldn't trust anyone now. Not after what she'd uncovered. Not after the threats, the shadows, the sense that the walls were closing in. If she stopped, she was certain she'd never start again.
She turned down a side street, narrow and lined with shuttered shops. The tires slipped on the slick pavement, and for a moment, the car fishtailed toward the curb before she righted it. The black sedan followed, smooth as a shadow.
At the end of the street, an old iron bridge spanned the river. Mireille's headlights flashed over the rain-slicked metal. She pressed her foot down, the engine whining in protest. If she could just make it to the bridge, maybe lose the tail on the twisty roads beyond the river, maybe.
A harsh jolt rocked the car. The black sedan had sped up, ramming her rear bumper. Metal screeched. Mireille screamed, fighting the wheel as her car swerved wildly. Another hit, harder this time. The sedan was pushing her, her own car skidding sideways across the bridge.
"Come on, Mireille, keep it together," she whispered, voice shaking.
The sedan hit her again, spinning her car in a slow, helpless arc. The world became a blur of wet lights and terror. The front of her car slammed into the bridge railing. Glass shattered. The airbag exploded, hitting her chest like a punch. Smoke and rain filled her mouth as she gasped for air.
Dazed, Mireille fumbled for her seat belt, hands clumsy. She could hear a car door slam behind her. The footsteps slow, deliberate crunched on broken glass.
She pushed hard against the door. It wouldn't open. Panic clawed at her throat. She kicked it, once, twice, and it finally gave way, swinging open with a shriek.
Rain hammered down as she stumbled out, her legs wobbly and weak. She saw the shadowy figure moving toward her, face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, shoulders hunched against the storm. Mireille didn't wait to see more.
She ran, slipping on the wet bridge, lungs burning. Behind her, the footsteps quickened. Mireille ducked through a break in the railing and slid down the embankment, mud slick beneath her shoes. Branches whipped at her arms. She heard the man curse and follow, but she was already scrambling, half-falling, down to the riverside path.
The city was nothing but noise and fear. Mireille ran, not caring where she was going, only that she had to get away. Her mind flashed with images of the documents she'd uncovered the names, the faces, the secrets that had brought her here.
Somewhere behind her, the black sedan's horn blared. Headlights swept the riverbank, searching. Mireille crouched low, pressing herself into the muddy undergrowth, hardly daring to breathe.
Minutes passed. The lights moved away. Mireille's teeth chattered, more from fear than cold. She wiped the rain from her face and forced herself to her feet.
She had nothing now no phone, no money, no plan. Only the secrets in her mind and the knowledge that someone wanted her dead.
Far ahead, she saw the glow of a 24-hour bus station. Mireille kept to the shadows, her every step heavy with dread. She bought a ticket with the last of her cash, choosing a destination at random anywhere that would take her far from the city and the man in the black sedan.
As the bus pulled away from the station, Mireille curled up in her seat, watching the rain blur the city into a smear of color and fear. She didn't know where she was going, only that she couldn't go back.
The chase had only just begun.
The bus engine rumbled beneath Mireille, steady and low, as if it might lull her to sleep. But she couldn't relax. Her eyes flicked from window to window, searching for any sign of the black sedan. The other passengers kept to themselves an old woman snoring softly, a man in a suit staring at his phone, a teenager with bright headphones lost in his own world. Mireille felt invisible among them, but she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Raindrops slid down in twisting lines, catching the city lights and turning them into tiny jewels. Her breath left a misty patch on the window. She closed her eyes, if only for a moment, and tried to remember the last time she'd felt safe. The answer wouldn't come.
The bus rolled through empty streets, slowing at intersections, then picking up speed as they left the city center behind. Streetlights faded into darkness. Mireille's mind replayed the crash on the bridge the violent jolt, the glass, the faceless man. The fear in her chest grew sharper, like a knife twisting each time she remembered the words: You know too much.
She pulled her knees up, arms hugging them close. Her clothes were still damp, sticking to her skin. She tugged her jacket tighter, trying to find warmth, but it was no use. Inside, she felt hollow, as if the fear had eaten away everything but the need to survive.
She tried to distract herself with the details of her surroundings. At the back of the bus, the seats squeaked with every bump. A blue backpack rested on the floor, forgotten by someone who'd gotten off earlier. The driver's face, reflected in the big rear view mirror, was blank and tired, eyes fixed on the road. Mireille studied every detail, telling herself that staying alert might make the difference between life and death.
The bus made a sudden turn onto a highway. The city vanished behind them, leaving only darkness and the steady slap of windshield wipers. Mireille forced herself to breathe deeply. She needed to focus. She needed a plan.
Her mind drifted back to the day everything changed: the moment she'd found those files on her editor's desk. At first, she hadn't understood what she was looking at a jumble of emails, bank transfers, blurry photographs. But as she'd read on, the truth had become clear. People with power, hiding dirty secrets. Threats, money, names she recognized from the news. The story of a lifetime, she'd thought. Now she realized it was a death sentence.
Someone must have seen her reading. The warnings started small unsettling phone calls, shadows in the hallway, her mail torn open. Then the note had come, with its sharp, final warning. Leave before it's too late.
She shivered. Every instinct told her to run. That's what she was doing now, but she felt like she was only buying time. Whoever wanted her gone wouldn't stop with a single threat. They'd already tried to kill her.
The bus slowed, pulling into a rest stop. The old woman got off, moving slowly under a bright yellow umbrella. Mireille watched as the doors hissed shut and the bus pulled away again, carrying her farther into the unknown.
She checked her pockets for the hotel key she'd grabbed on her way out. It was still there, cold and sharp against her palm. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to use it again.
The highway signs flashed by, their letters blurred by rain. Mireille scanned them, looking for a name that meant nothing to her. She wanted to disappear somewhere no one would look a place where she could be just another stranger, lost in the crowd.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a movement in the aisle. The man in the suit stood up, stretching his legs. He glanced at Mireille, his eyes lingering a moment too long. She looked away, pretending to study the window. Her heart thudded in her chest. Was he just another tired traveler, or was he watching her?
The man walked to the front of the bus, spoke to the driver, then returned to his seat. He didn't look at Mireille again, but she still felt uneasy. She told herself it was her imagination, but the fear wouldn't leave.
As the hours crawled by, exhaustion pressed down on her. Her eyelids grew heavy. She fought to stay awake, afraid of what might happen if she let her guard down. But at last, her head drooped, and the darkness pulled her under.
She woke with a start. The bus had stopped. People were shuffling off, their voices low and tired. Mireille blinked, trying to remember where she was. Her head ached, and her mouth was dry. She stood, stretching stiff limbs, and followed the others outside.
The air was cold and fresh. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. The bus station was small, tucked between a bakery and a closed florist, its sign swinging in the wind. Beyond the station, the town was dark and quiet, the streets empty except for a few parked cars.
Mireille walked toward the edge of the platform, keeping to the shadows. She tried to calm herself. This was just another town, she told herself. No one here knew her. She could start over.
She slipped down an alley, heart pounding. Her shoes squelched on wet pavement. She passed a row of darkened shops a tailor, a bookstore, a tiny café with chairs stacked inside. The town seemed frozen in time, waiting for morning.
She turned a corner and nearly collided with a garbage bin. She stepped back, startled, and bumped into another figure.
"Sorry," she whispered, stepping aside.
The person a teenage girl with pink hair glanced at her, eyes wide with surprise, then hurried away.
Mireille's heart hammered. She pressed herself against the wall, listening to the fading footsteps. Was the girl just a local, or had someone sent her to follow Mireille?
She shook her head. She couldn't let paranoia rule her. She needed somewhere to stay, somewhere safe.
She walked on, scanning the street for a hotel or guesthouse. At the end of the block, she saw a faded sign: Seabreeze Inn. A single light glowed in the lobby window.
Mireille hesitated, then crossed the street. The lobby was warm and smelled faintly of lavender. A woman with gray hair sat at the front desk, reading a magazine.
"Good evening," the woman said, smiling. "Looking for a room?"
"Yes, please," Mireille said, voice soft.
The woman slid a form across the counter. "Just fill this out and I'll get you settled. You're lucky—we just had a cancellation."
Mireille scribbled a fake name, hands shaking. The woman didn't seem to notice.
"Room twelve," she said, handing over a key. "Breakfast is at seven. Let me know if you need anything."
"Thank you," Mireille said, clutching the key like a lifeline.
She climbed the narrow stairs, the old carpet muffling her steps. Her room was small but clean, with a single bed and a window overlooking the empty street. Mireille locked the door behind her and checked the window latch twice.
She sat on the bed, fighting tears. She was safe, for now. But she knew it wouldn't last. Whoever was after her wouldn't give up. She had to be ready.
Mireille lay back, staring at the ceiling. Her mind spun with questions. Who had betrayed her? How much did they know? How far would they go to keep their secrets hidden?
She thought of the files she'd left behind, hidden in a place only she could find. She hoped it would be enough to keep her alive.
As the storm raged outside, Mireille drifted into uneasy sleep, haunted by the memory of headlights in the rain and the footsteps that had followed her into the night.
She woke before dawn, heart pounding. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then the memories rushed back. The crash, the bus, the strange town. She sat up, breathing hard.
She checked the window. The street was empty, the rain finally stopped. A few early risers hurried past, heads down, umbrellas bobbing.
Mireille dressed quickly, pulling her jacket tight. She didn't dare leave anything behind. She slipped out of the room, careful not to make a sound.
Downstairs, the lobby was empty. The woman at the desk must have gone to prepare breakfast. Mireille left her key on the counter and slipped out the door.
The town was waking up. Shopkeepers opened shutters, swept doorways, set out signs. Mireille kept to the edge of the sidewalk, eyes scanning every face.
She needed a phone, a way to contact someone she could trust. But who was left? Her editor was dead, she remembered with a fresh wave of grief. The others her colleagues, her friends she didn't know who had turned against her.
She ducked into a small bakery. The smell of fresh bread made her stomach rumble, but she forced herself to focus. She bought a croissant and coffee, paying with the last of her change.
The young woman behind the counter smiled at her. "Just moved to town?"
Mireille nodded, forcing a smile. "Passing through."
"Be careful," the woman said, lowering her voice. "Not everyone here is friendly."
Mireille stiffened. Was it a warning, or just small talk?
"Thanks," she said, hurrying out.
She found a bench near the harbor and sat, watching the water. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp in the morning air. Across the bay, fishing boats bobbed in the gray dawn.
She tried to plan her next move. She needed a new identity, a safe place to hide, a way to get word out about what she'd found. But most of all, she needed to stay alive.
A car drove slowly past, its windows tinted dark. Mireille ducked her head, heart racing. The car turned the corner and vanished.
She finished her breakfast, every bite tasteless. She stood, brushing crumbs from her coat, and started walking again. She didn't know where she was going, only that she couldn't stop.
The morning passed in a blur. Mireille wandered the town, memorizing street names, looking for places to hide. She bought a cheap prepaid phone from a convenience store, paid cash, and left before the clerk could ask questions.
She found a quiet park and sat on a bench, turning the phone over in her hands. She dialed a number she knew by heart, one she hadn't called in years.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. Then a voice answered a man, cautious and cold.
"Hello?"
"It's me," she whispered. "Mireille."
A long pause. "Where are you?"
"I can't say. I need help."
Another pause. "You shouldn't have called."
"I didn't know who else"
The line went dead.
Mireille stared at the phone, fighting panic. She was truly alone.
She threw the phone in a trash bin and walked away, head down. She couldn't trust anyone. Not now.
She cut through an alley, heart pounding. A cat darted past, making her jump. She pressed herself against the wall, listening. Footsteps echoed behind her. Mireille froze, then forced herself to move, walking quickly, not looking back.
She reached the main street and blended with the crowd. She would keep moving, keep running, until she found a way out. She had no other choice.