The Hours We Lost

I pumped the pedal twice. It came back loose beneath my shoe, a dead thing with no resistance. The tires hissed over the wet road. The guardrail appeared in the headlights, then slid away as I wrestled the wheel.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The brakes.”

“What about them?”

“They’re not catching.”

She laughed once. It was a small, ugly sound. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Don’t scare me, Naveed.”

“I’m trying not to scare you.”

The road dropped. I shifted down, the engine screaming as the Porsche dragged itself against the slope. Angeline’s cup tipped, splashing codeine across her wrist. She stared at the liquid as if it had insulted her.

“You took the Vicodin too?” I asked.

“Drive.”

“Angeline.”

“Drive!”

I hit the emergency brake. The rear tires shrieked. The car fishtailed, and her shoulder slammed against the door. My hands tightened around the wheel until the leather cut into my palms.

For half a second, the world became headlights and stone. Then the Porsche straightened, skidding across the centerline. No other cars. No witnesses. Just the mountain opening its black mouth ahead of us.

“I need you to stay still,” I said.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I need you to shut up for one minute.”

Her eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. Even in the dark I could see how far gone she was, pupils wide, face pale beneath the dashboard glow. I had seen that look in hotel bathrooms, backstage corridors, my own bedroom at quarter after four in the morning, when I woke on the floor with her sprawled across my arms and no idea how either of us had gotten there.

She leaned closer to the windshield.

“You always think you’re dying.”

“Tonight I might be.”

“Because of a brake?”

“Because the brakes don’t work.”

“Maybe you broke them.”

I looked at her.

She tilted her head, almost curious. “You drive like a maniac.”

The next curve came tighter than the last. I dropped into second. The Porsche bucked, exhaust cracking against the rock wall. I steered wide, letting the right tires grind over the shoulder. Gravel hammered the underside. The car shuddered but slowed enough for me to make the turn.

Angeline began humming.

It was one of my songs, the one people screamed back at me in clubs, the one that had bought this car and the house I never slept in. She hummed it badly, dragging the notes until they sounded sick.

“Stop,” I said.

“You hate when I sing.”

“I hate when you do anything right now.”

Her smile appeared in the mirror. “You need me.”

“I need you to be quiet.”

“You don’t love me.”

“No.”

The word came out before I could dress it up.

Her humming stopped.

The road rose ahead, then bent toward a turnout marked by two battered reflectors. I aimed for it, foot hovering uselessly over the brake. The emergency brake was all I had. Each pull slowed us a little, each release sent us rolling again.

Angeline watched my hand.

“You don’t love me,” she said.

“I didn’t say I don’t need you.”

“That’s worse.”

“Maybe.”

She turned the cup in her hands. “You’re afraid I’ll leave.”

“I’m afraid you’ll kill me.”

Her expression changed so quickly I almost missed it. The hurt came first, then something colder sliding over it.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“You always make everything a scene.”

“I’m trying to keep us alive.”

“Then keep driving.”

The turnout rushed toward us. I yanked the emergency brake and cut the wheel. The Porsche spun halfway across the gravel, nose striking a low wooden post. The impact snapped my head forward. The airbag did not deploy. Glass rattled in the doors. A stone punched through the passenger-side window and landed in Angeline’s lap.

For a moment neither of us moved.

The engine idled unevenly. Steam lifted from beneath the hood, white against the headlights. Somewhere below the mountain, a dog barked and kept barking.

Angeline looked at the stone in her lap.

Then she started laughing.

I shoved my door open. The cold hit me hard enough to clear the fuzz from my head. My knees nearly folded when I stepped onto the gravel. Behind me, Angeline climbed out more slowly, still holding the cup.

“Stay there,” I said.

“Don’t walk away.”

“I’m checking the car.”

“You’re leaving me?”

“I’m checking the fucking car.”

The front end had folded against the post. One headlight hung by its wiring, shining sideways into the trees. I crouched near the driver’s side and reached under the chassis. My fingers found wet metal, grit, a line that should have been firm. It wasn’t. The brake hose dangled with a clean, bright split through its rubber casing.

I stared at it.

The cut was too straight.

Behind me, Angeline said, “Naveed.”

I stood. “Did you touch the car before we left?”

Her face was unreadable. “What kind of question is that?”

“Did you touch it?”

“I got in.”

“Did you touch the brakes?”

She laughed again, but there was no humor in it now. “You think I did this?”

“I’m asking.”

“You think I cut your brakes?”

“I’m asking you.”

She walked toward me, shoes crunching over gravel. The wind pushed her hair across her face. She didn’t move it away.

“You want me to say yes?”

“I want the truth.”

“The truth is you’re high and paranoid.”

“I’m not that high.”

“You can’t feel your face half the time.”

“Answer me.”

She stopped close enough that I could see the red mark where the codeine had spilled across her wrist. Her eyes dropped to my hands. The scars along my knuckles caught the headlight, pale lines crossing older ones.

“You always look for somebody to blame,” she said.

“Because somebody keeps giving me reasons.”

Her gaze lingered on the scars. For one strange second, she looked as if she recognized them - not the injuries themselves, but the person who had made them.

“I know what you are,” she whispered.

“What am I?”

“Lost.”

The word landed harder than the crash.

A vehicle appeared around the bend below us, its headlights climbing through the trees. I stepped between Angeline and the road without thinking. The truck slowed, horn blaring once. I waved both arms until it passed, then watched its red taillights shrink into the dark.

Angeline came up behind me.

“You called anybody?” she asked.

“My phone’s in the car.”

“Call them.”

I turned toward the Porsche. She caught my sleeve.

“Don’t go back in.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous.”

I looked at her hand on my arm. Her grip was light, almost tender. That was what frightened me.

“Chris will answer,” I said. “Maybe.”

“You’re going to tell him I cut your brakes?”

“I’m going to tell him the car failed.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because nobody believes you when you tell the truth.”

She let go. I went to the driver’s door and reached inside. My phone had slid beneath the seat. The screen lit my face blue. Three missed calls from Amy. One from Molly. Nothing from Chris or Dan.

I called Chris first.

It rang until voicemail.

I called Amy. She answered on the fourth ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Naveed?”

“Amy, I need - ”

“Where are you?”

“Mountain road. The Porsche crashed.”

“What?”

“We’re alive.”

“Who’s we?”

I looked at Angeline. She stood beside the broken headlight, staring into the trees.

“Me and Angeline.”

Amy cursed under her breath. “Is she hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Call emergency services.”

“I’m going to.”

“Now, Naveed.”

Angeline turned toward me. “Don’t.”

The word was quiet, but Amy heard it through the phone.

“Is that her?” Amy asked.

I didn’t answer.

“Naveed, get away from her and call for help.”

Angeline’s face tightened. “You tell Amy to mind her business.”

“She’s trying to help.”

“She hates me.”

“She’s not wrong to.”

Angeline stepped closer. “Give me the phone.”

I backed toward the road. “No.”

Her expression emptied.

That was the moment everything changed. Not when the pedal went dead. Not when the Porsche hit the post. It changed when Angeline looked at the phone in my hand like it was a weapon she needed to take from me.

I ended the call and dialed emergency services.

The operator asked for our location. I read the marker from the roadside, my voice breaking around the numbers. Angeline watched without speaking. When I finished, the operator told me to stay in the vehicle if it was safe.

“It isn’t,” I said.

“Move to a safe distance from the road and wait for responders.”

I hung up.

Angeline’s shoulders began to shake. For one second I thought she was crying. Then she bent over and vomited onto the gravel, the cup falling from her hand and rolling beneath the Porsche.

I stood there with the phone pressed against my palm, listening to the wind scrape through the pines.

“You need a hospital,” I said.

“I need you.”

“You need help.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving.”

That was the lie I could still manage.

Sirens rose somewhere far below, faint and blue through the mountain dark. Angeline wiped her mouth with the sleeve of my jacket. I walked to the front of the Porsche again and crouched beside the torn brake line.

The metal glinted in the headlights.

A clean slice. Fresh edges. No torn rubber, no crushed casing, no sign of a stone or collision making the damage. Someone had cut it before we ever reached the mountain.

I looked at Angeline.

She was watching me now.

“I didn’t do it,” she said.

I hadn’t accused her aloud.

The sirens grew louder, climbing toward us. Angeline came to stand beside the hood, close enough that her shadow covered the severed line.

“I didn’t do it,” she repeated.

I believed that she wanted me to believe her.

The Porsche ticked and steamed between us. Below the guardrail, the mountain disappeared into a depth I couldn’t see. I had wanted to get us safely off the road, and somehow I had done it. We were alive. The car was stopped. Help was coming.

But the brake line lay open beneath my hand, cut so neatly it looked deliberate.

Angeline reached for me.

I stepped away before she could touch me.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters and about 11,844 words in the full book.