I was behind the wheel on the highway fast lane, my right foot flooring the gas pedal, the speedometer needle climbing past 105.
Ahead of me, my wife drove a red Ferrari, blocking my lane, forcing me to slow down.
To my right, my wife's college junior Cecil Fox steered a cargo truck alongside me at the same speed, boxing me in so I couldn't move.
My wife's text message lit up the screen, furious.
"You think you're so good at punishing people? Cecil made one wrong turn on a delivery route, and you cut him off and slapped him across the face."
"Today I'm going to make sure you know exactly how that feels!"
I glanced at the backseat.
My father-in-law sat there, gasping for air, his left hand pressed against his chest. He was in critical condition.
Gretchen Frost had no idea. The car she was boxing in wasn't just mine. She was cutting off her own father's only road to survival.
...
Just minutes earlier, I'd wrapped up a meeting and pulled out my phone to find a message from my father-in-law, Norman Frost.
He told me he knew Gretchen and I had been in a cold war for the past week. He'd come to the house specifically to sit us both down and talk things through.
But when I got home and pushed open the door, I found him collapsed on the floor, one hand clutching his throat, breathing in sharp, ragged bursts.
A textbook acute cardiac episode.
I got his medication into him immediately, but the color in his face didn't improve. He needed a hospital.
I called my personal physician.
He didn't pick up. Instead, he sent a text.
My wife had given him a direct order. He was to examine Cecil Fox's injuries today.
I stood frozen, anger surging through me. This was exactly why my wife and I had been at each other's throats lately.
Cecil Fox.
Ever since he'd joined the company, Gretchen had been coming home later and later. Every time I asked, she gave me the same excuse: working late.
Then, one week ago, I'd waited for her downstairs on purpose. I looked up at her office window, and there, backlit against the floor-to-ceiling glass, were two bodies tangled together in a frenzy.
When she finally came home, I confronted her. She accused me of being paranoid.
Seven years of marriage. We had never fought. Not once. Now we fought constantly, and every single argument circled back to the same man.
I cut the thought short. I needed the doctor here, now.
But the physician told me Gretchen had already warned him. She said I'd use jealousy as an excuse to interfere with Cecil's treatment. Under no circumstances was he to follow any order I gave.
Norman's groans were getting worse. I swore under my breath, scooped up my keys, and drove for the nearest hospital myself.
I'd barely merged onto the highway when a cargo truck cut in from the side, matching my speed exactly, locking in on my left.
And ahead of me, a red Ferrari planted itself squarely in my lane.
I caught a glimpse of the driver in the Ferrari's right side mirror. The woman behind the wheel was my wife, Gretchen Frost.
I looked left. Cecil Fox sat high up in the truck's cab, both hands draped lazily over the steering wheel, staring down at me with open provocation in his eyes.
I blinked. Then my vision went red.
Cecil didn't have a single injury on him. So why had Gretchen pulled my doctor away?
Then, without warning—
Gretchen's brake lights flared. She slammed on the brakes, and I had no choice but to decelerate with her.
Norman hunched forward in the backseat, his right hand clutching his chest.
"Clarence Gilbert, my chest feels like it's caving in. How much farther to the hospital?"
His voice was weaker now. Sweat rolled down my temples. "Almost there. Just hold on a little longer."
I grabbed my phone and called Gretchen.
Through the rearview mirror, I watched her glance at the screen. She declined the call without a second's hesitation.
From the truck beside me, Cecil laid on the horn and let out a whoop, dripping with mockery.
I turned my head. Our eyes met. He grinned at me, slow and vicious.
