Chapter 3 - The Highway of Regrets
The interstate stretched before me like a desolate gray ribbon carved through fields of endless, blinding snow. The rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers was the only sound inside the car, beating like a frantic, unsteady pulse. My hands were clamped so tightly to the steering wheel that my knuckles turned white, the leather creaking beneath my grip.
Every mile marker I passed felt like an indictment.
Why didn't I look at her eyes when I put on my coat last night?
I replayed those final moments over and over in agonizing, excruciating detail. Emma had been leaning against the arm of our sofa, wearing that oversized cream sweater that barely covered her rounded stomach. She had looked small. So terribly small and pale against the mountain of baby blankets she was meticulously folding.
When Rachel’s name flashed on my phone screen at eleven o’clock, Emma hadn't snapped or yelled. She hadn't thrown an ultimatum. A woman only screams when she still believes her words can change the outcome. Emma hadn't screamed because she had already given up on me. She had simply closed her eyes, drawn a slow, painful breath, and given me that gentle, devastating release: “Go spend Christmas with her.”
And I, blinded by my own self-absorbed delusions of chivalry, had smiled, kissed her forehead, and said, “I won't be long, sweetheart. Leave the tree lights on.”
Her forehead had felt hot against my lips. Not warm—feverish. A symptom I had brushed aside as ordinary pregnancy body heat.
""Idiot,"" I screamed at the windshield, slamming my palm against the wheel. ""Blind, arrogant idiot!""
About forty miles outside the city, the highway began to wind through the jagged coastal pines. The storm had picked up again, throwing dense, swirling gusts of whiteout snow across the asphalt. Ahead of me, red brake lights flared through the haze.
Traffic crawled to a complete standstill.
I rolled down my window, cold air violently slapping my face. Ahead, roughly half a mile up the incline, blue and amber emergency lights cut through the falling snow. A state trooper vehicle was positioned sideways across both lanes, redirecting cars toward a narrow, unplowed service road.
Panic seized my chest with icy claws.
I put the car in park, jumped out into the ankle-deep slush, and ran through the line of idling vehicles toward the flashing lights. The wind bit through my sweater, but I couldn't feel it. All I could see was the twisted silhouette of an automobile resting in the embankment fifty yards past the cruiser.
""Sir! Stay in your vehicle!"" a burly state trooper shouted, holding up a gloved hand as I approached the flares.
""Officer, please!"" I yelled over the howling wind. ""What kind of car is that in the ditch? Was there a woman inside? Is she pregnant?""
The officer narrowed his eyes, studying my wild, unkempt appearance. ""We're clearing a multi-vehicle slide-off from three hours ago, son. Blue sedan and an SUV. Both drivers have already been transported to the county clinic in Riverdale.""
My stomach lurched. ""A blue sedan? What model? Was the driver a woman in her late twenties with dark brown hair?""
The trooper checked his clipboard, his expression softening slightly at the sheer terror in my eyes. ""Vehicle was a 2018 silver Honda, driver was a male in his forties. Nobody named Miller, son. If you're looking for someone, you need to check the county dispatch or get off this pass before the freeze locks down the highway completely.""
I leaned against the icy hood of the police cruiser, my knees buckling as a wave of nauseating relief washed over me, immediately followed by renewed dread. Emma wasn't in that wreckage. But she was still out here somewhere in this sub-zero wilderness, driving alone while her body fought against a silent, deadly medical crisis.
I trudged back to my car, my boots soaked through with icy water. As I pulled back into the crawl of redirected traffic, my phone chimed on the console.
It was a notification from our shared banking app:
Card activity: $45.00 at Harbor View Service Station, Cape Hope.
May you like
Timestamp: 1:14 AM.
She had made it to the coast. Twelve hours ago.
