"2AM Pickup":
I’d been driving for Uber for nearly a year, picking up late-night shifts to make extra cash. The job was usually predictable—rowdy bar-hoppers, exhausted waitresses, or quiet folks heading home after a long day. I liked the quiet of the night, the way the city felt like it was mine alone. But one night, that all changed, and I still can’t shake what happened.
It was around 2:00 AM when my phone lit up with a new ride request. The pickup was in a sleepy part of town, a street lined with faded brick apartment buildings, their fire escapes rusted and sagging. I pulled up under a flickering streetlight, its weak glow barely cutting through the dark. A woman stood there, maybe late 20s, with long dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She wore a plain gray hoodie and jeans, clutching a small black backpack to her chest like it was her lifeline. Her face was half-hidden in the shadows, but I could see her eyes darting around, scanning the street.
I rolled down the passenger window. “Hi, you waiting for a ride?” I asked, keeping my tone friendly.
She nodded, barely meeting my eyes, and slid into the back seat. The door shut with a soft thud, and she sat stiffly, the backpack on her lap, her fingers gripping it so tight her knuckles looked pale. She was staring at her phone, the screen’s glow lighting up her face. Her jaw was clenched, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Where are we headed?” I asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
“Downtown,” she said, her voice low and clipped, like she didn’t want to talk. “I’ll give you the exact spot when we get closer.”
I hesitated but tapped the app to start the ride. The destination was vague, just a pin dropped in the general downtown area, which wasn’t unusual but still made me uneasy. I pulled away from the curb, the hum of my car’s engine filling the silence. The streets were deserted, just the occasional flicker of a neon sign or a stray cat darting across the road.
Trying to ease the tension, I said, “Late night, huh? You coming from work or something?”
She didn’t answer. Her fingers were tapping furiously on her phone, the sound sharp and insistent. I glanced at her again in the mirror. Her face was pale, almost ghostly in the dim light, with dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired—or maybe scared. It was hard to tell.
We drove for about 10 minutes, the city lights growing brighter as we neared downtown. But the silence in the car was heavy, like a weight pressing on my chest. I tried again. “Everything okay back there? Need me to stop anywhere?”
“Fine,” she snapped, her voice sharper than before. “Just keep driving.”
Her tone sent a chill through me. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, my palms starting to sweat. Something about her felt off, like she was hiding something. I checked the app again, but the destination still hadn’t updated. The pin just sat there, a blurry marker in the middle of downtown. I told myself it was fine—some passengers were just private—but my gut was telling me something else.
“Turn right up here,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
I turned onto a narrower street, leaving the bright lights of downtown behind. The buildings changed from glass storefronts to older, grittier warehouses, their brick facades stained with years of neglect. The streetlights were spaced farther apart, casting long, dark shadows that seemed to swallow the road. My headlights barely lit the way ahead, and the pavement was cracked, making the car jostle slightly.
“Where exactly are we going?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, but it came out higher than I meant.
“You’ll see,” she said, her tone flat, almost cold. “Just follow my directions.”
My heart started to pound. The road was getting rougher, the buildings more dilapidated. We were in an industrial area now, far from the bars and restaurants I’d expected. The warehouses loomed like silent giants, their windows either boarded up or shattered, glass glinting in the dark. I glanced at her again. She was still clutching the backpack, her fingers digging into the fabric. Her phone was off now, and she was staring out the window, her eyes wide and alert.
“Left here,” she said after a few minutes, pointing to a side road that was more like an alley.
I hesitated but turned, my tires crunching over loose gravel. The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for my car. The buildings on either side felt like they were closing in, their brick walls scratched and covered in faded graffiti. There were no streetlights here, just my headlights slicing through the darkness. The air in the car felt thick, and my pulse was racing. I wanted to ask her why we were here, what she was doing, but her silence felt like a wall I couldn’t break through.
“Stop here,” she said abruptly.
I slowed the car, my hands shaking slightly. We were in the middle of nowhere, parked next to a rusted chain-link fence that surrounded an empty lot. Beyond the fence, I could see the outline of a crumbling warehouse, its roof sagging, its windows dark and hollow. There were no other cars, no people, no signs of life. Just the faint hum of my engine and the sound of my own breathing, loud in my ears.
I turned to look at her. “‘Is this the spot? You sure you want to be dropped off here?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Wait here a minute.”
Before I could respond, she opened the door and stepped out. She stood a few feet away, her back to me, staring down the alley. Her posture was tense, like she was waiting for something—or someone. I watched her, my fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. Every instinct told me to leave, to hit the gas and get out of there, but I couldn’t just abandon her in this creepy place. What if she was in trouble?
Then I heard it—a low rumble, like another car approaching. Headlights flickered in the distance, growing brighter as they came down the alley. My stomach dropped. The lights were high, like from a big vehicle, maybe a van or a truck. I glanced at her, and she was staring at the approaching vehicle, her face pale and tense, her hands still gripping the backpack.
The vehicle stopped about 20 feet away, its engine idling loudly. It was an old black sedan, its windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside. She took a step toward it, then stopped, like she was hesitating. My heart was hammering now, and I could feel sweat beading on my forehead.
She turned back to me, her eyes wide with something like fear—or maybe warning. “Don’t move,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Don’t say anything.”
I froze, my hands locked on the wheel. A man got out of the sedan, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He moved slowly, deliberately, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stopped a few feet from her, and they started talking, their voices too low for me to hear. I strained to listen, but all I caught were fragments—words like “hurry” and “deal.”
She handed him the backpack, and he unzipped it, pulling out something small and wrapped in plastic. My mind raced. Was it drugs? Money? Something worse? He glanced at my car, and for a split second, our eyes met through the windshield. His face was shadowed, but his stare was cold, like he was sizing me up. My breath caught in my throat.
He said something else to her, and she nodded quickly, her movements jerky. Then she turned and walked back to my car, her steps fast, almost running. She yanked the door open and slid inside, slamming it shut.
“Drive,” she said, her voice trembling. “Now.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I hit the gas, the tires screeching as I sped out of the alley. The sedan’s headlights stayed still, but I kept checking the rearview mirror, half-expecting it to follow us. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely steer straight.
“Where to?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Back to where you picked me up,” she said, her eyes glued to the side mirror, like she was watching for something.
We drove in silence, the tension so thick it felt like it could choke me. I wanted to ask her what was going on, who that man was, what was in the backpack. But her face stopped me. She looked terrified, her hands trembling as she clutched her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen like she was ready to call someone.
The city lights came back into view, and I felt a tiny bit of relief, but my heart was still racing. I kept replaying the scene in my head—the dark alley, the man’s cold stare, the way she’d told me not to move. What had I just been part of?
When we reached her pickup spot, she opened the door before I even stopped the car. “Thanks,” she muttered, tossing a crumpled $20 bill onto the seat. She was out and gone, disappearing into the shadows of the apartment building before I could say a word.
I sat there, staring at the $20 bill. It felt dirty, like it was payment for something I didn’t want to know about. I picked it up, my hands still shaking, and stuffed it into the glove compartment. I didn’t want it near me.
The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I checked the news, my stomach twisting as I scrolled through headlines. There was a small article about a police operation in the industrial district, something about a sting targeting “suspicious activity” at night. No details, no arrests mentioned, but it was enough to make my skin crawl. Was that alley part of it? Was she involved?
A few days later, I was filling up at a gas station when I overheard two guys talking nearby. One mentioned a “drop” in the industrial area, how the cops had been watching it for weeks. “They’re still looking for the runners,” he said, his voice low. “People moving stuff at night, in and out quick.”
I froze, pretending to check my phone. Runners. Was that what she was? Was I her getaway driver without even knowing it?
I didn’t drive for Uber for a week after that. Every time I thought about getting back in the car, I saw her pale face, the man’s stare, the backpack. I kept the $20 bill in the glove compartment, untouched, like it was evidence of something I couldn’t explain.
Eventually, I had to go back to work, but I changed my shifts to daytime only. No more late-night rides, no more dark alleys. I started checking every destination before accepting a ride, and if it looked sketchy, I canceled. I didn’t care about the ratings.
A month later, I was at a diner when I saw a news report on the TV above the counter. A blurry security camera image showed a woman with long dark hair, carrying a backpack, walking into an alley. The reporter said something about an ongoing investigation, “persons of interest” in a smuggling ring. My coffee went cold in my hands. It looked like her, but I couldn’t be sure.
I never saw her again, and I hope I never do. But sometimes, when I’m driving alone at night, I check the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see her sitting there, clutching that backpack, her eyes wide with secrets I don’t want to know.
"Curbside Pickup":
I’d just left my friend’s apartment after a long night of catching up. We’d eaten pizza, shared a bottle of wine, and laughed over old college stories until the clock crept past midnight. My phone showed 12:17 a.m., and the thought of walking home alone through the quiet streets didn’t sit right. I opened my rideshare app, tapped for a ride, and waited on the curb, the glow of my phone screen the only light in the dim hallway outside her building. A notification pinged: my driver was two minutes away. Soon, a dark blue sedan pulled up, its engine humming softly. The driver, a stocky man in his late forties with a thick, wiry mustache and a faded plaid shirt, leaned over from the driver’s seat and waved.
“Heading to Elm Street?” he called through the open passenger window, his voice gravelly but friendly enough.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, forcing a smile as I opened the back door and slid onto the cracked leather seat. The car smelled like stale cigarettes masked by a pine-scented air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. I buckled up, the click of the seatbelt loud in the quiet car, and set my purse on the seat beside me.
“Rough night?” he asked, glancing at me in the mirror as he pulled onto the road. His eyes were small and dark, catching the streetlights as they flicked between me and the windshield.
“Nah, just a fun one,” I said lightly, not wanting to dive into details. “Good to see old friends.”
He nodded, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Nice. I used to have nights like that. Now it’s just me and the road, you know?” He chuckled, but it sounded forced, like he was trying too hard to keep the conversation going.
For the first few minutes, things felt normal. We traded small talk—about the city, how busy the weekends got, how he liked driving at night because it was quieter. His voice had a slight accent, maybe Eastern European, though I couldn’t pin it down. But something about him made me uneasy. His eyes kept darting to the mirror, lingering on me a second too long. I shifted in my seat, crossing my arms, and stared out the window at the neon signs blurring past.
Then I noticed the route. We should’ve been on the main boulevard by now, heading straight toward Elm Street, but instead, he turned onto a narrow side road. The bright storefronts gave way to dark, empty lots and crumbling warehouses, their windows boarded up or shattered. The streetlights were sparse, some flickering like they were about to die, casting jagged shadows across the pavement.
“Hey, um, isn’t Elm Street the other way?” I asked, leaning forward, my voice sharper than I intended. My fingers tightened around my phone.
“This is a shortcut,” he said, not turning around. His tone was calm, almost too calm. “Saves time. Less traffic.”
I frowned, pulling up the map on my app, but the signal was weak, and the screen just spun, refusing to load. My stomach twisted. “I’d really prefer the main roads,” I said, trying to sound firm. “I’m not in a rush.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached for the radio and turned it down, the low hum of a talk show fading into silence. The only sounds were the tires crunching over loose gravel and my own breathing, suddenly loud in my ears. “You live alone?” he asked, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror again. This time, they didn’t look away.
“No,” I lied, my voice catching. “I’ve got roommates. They’re probably waiting up for me.” I forced a smile, hoping he’d drop it.
He nodded slowly, his lips curling into a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good to have people around,” he said, but there was something off about his tone, like he was testing me. My heart started to race, a cold sweat prickling the back of my neck.
The road grew darker, the buildings thinning out until there were only trees and empty fields on either side. No cars passed us, no headlights in the distance. Just us, alone in the night. He slowed the car, pulling over onto a gravel shoulder where the road dipped into a shallow ditch. The engine idled, a low rumble that vibrated through the seat.
“Why are we stopping?” I asked, my voice shaking now. I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles ached.
“Got a problem with the car,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Need to check it out. Won’t take long.” He got out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he walked to the trunk. I heard the latch pop, the trunk creaking open.
I sat frozen, my eyes locked on the side mirror, watching him. He stood there, his back to me, rummaging through something—a bag, maybe. My mind screamed at me to do something, anything, but my body wouldn’t move. The doors were locked, the windows up. I tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at my chest. I glanced at my phone again—still no signal.
Then he was back, moving fast. He yanked open my door, the cold air hitting me like a slap. “Get out,” he said, his voice hard, no trace of the fake friendliness from before.
“What? Why?” I pressed myself against the far side of the seat, my hands fumbling for the opposite door’s handle.
“Get out now,” he repeated, stepping closer. His frame filled the doorway, blocking any chance of slipping past. His eyes were cold, unblinking, like a predator sizing up its prey.
I slid out slowly, my legs trembling so badly I nearly fell. The gravel shifted under my sneakers, and I clutched my purse like a lifeline. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, and pulled me toward the open trunk. “Open that bag,” he said, shoving a set of keys into my hand.
My hands shook as I reached for the black duffel bag inside the trunk. The zipper stuck at first, but when it finally gave, I saw what was inside: thick coils of rope, a roll of silver duct tape, a pair of black leather gloves, and something that looked like a folded tarp. My breath stopped. My vision tunneled, the world narrowing to that bag and the man standing too close behind me.
“What… what is this?” I whispered, stepping back, my voice barely audible.
He tightened his grip on my arm, pulling me closer. “You’re gonna help me with something,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word dripping with menace. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Let me go!” I shouted, twisting to break free, but his grip was like a vice. I swung my free arm, my nails raking across his hand, but he barely flinched. He shoved me against the car, the cold metal biting into my back, his face inches from mine.
“Scream all you want,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour. “No one’s out here. Just you and me.”
My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to give up. My phone was still in my pocket—I could feel its weight against my thigh. If I could just reach it, maybe I could call for help. As he turned to grab the duffel bag, I slipped my hand into my pocket, my fingers brushing the screen. I didn’t dare look down, just tapped blindly, praying I’d hit the emergency call button.
He noticed too fast. His hand shot out, ripping the phone from me. “You think you’re smart?” he snarled, hurling it into the bushes by the road. I heard it land with a soft thud, lost in the darkness. My last hope, gone.
I was shaking, my knees buckling, but I couldn’t let him win. “Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
He laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent chills down my spine. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, reaching for the rope in the bag.
I saw my chance. As he leaned over the trunk, I bolted, sprinting toward the road, my shoes slipping on the loose gravel. My lungs burned, my legs pumped, but I didn’t look back. I heard him shout, his boots pounding behind me, getting closer. I screamed, my voice raw, “Help! Somebody help me!”
The road was empty, the darkness swallowing my cries. He caught up, his hand grabbing my jacket, yanking me back. I stumbled, falling to my knees, the gravel cutting into my palms. He loomed over me, his breath heavy, his hand clamping around my arm again. “You’re making this worse for yourself,” he growled, dragging me back toward the car.
I kicked, thrashing, my nails clawing at his wrist. “Let go!” I screamed, my voice breaking. Then, a miracle—headlights pierced the darkness, twin beams sweeping across the trees. A car was coming, its engine growing louder. I screamed louder, “Help me! Please!”
The car slowed, gravel crunching as it pulled over. A man’s voice called out, sharp and urgent, “Hey! What’s going on out there?”
The driver froze, his grip loosening for a split second. I wrenched free, scrambling toward the headlights, my hands scraping the ground. The other driver, an older man with glasses and a gray beard, stepped out of his pickup truck, his phone already in his hand. “Stay right there!” he shouted at the driver, dialing 911.
The driver cursed under his breath, shoved me aside, and ran to his car. The engine roared as he peeled out, his taillights vanishing into the night. I collapsed on the ground, sobbing, my body shaking uncontrollably. The older man knelt beside me, his voice gentle. “It’s okay, you’re safe now. Police are on their way.”
The police arrived within minutes, their red and blue lights flashing through the trees. I told them everything—the wrong route, the trunk, the ropes, the way he’d grabbed me. They searched the bushes and found my phone, miraculously still connected to 911. The operator had heard my screams and traced the call, sending help just in time.
Days later, I got a call from the detective. They’d caught the driver, thanks to the license plate the other driver had noted. He’d been reported before—other passengers had complained about him acting strange, asking creepy questions, but the rideshare company hadn’t done anything. Worse, he had a record, assault charges from years back, somehow missed in their background check. The detective said I was lucky. I didn’t feel lucky.
That night still haunts me. I see his face in my dreams, those cold eyes in the rearview mirror, the glint of duct tape in the trunk. I don’t take rideshares anymore, not alone, not ever. I walk, or I call a friend, or I stay home. The fear clings to me, a shadow I can’t shake, a reminder of how close I came to never coming home at all.
"A Ride Too Late":
I finished my shift at the diner around 11 PM, my sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as I untied my apron. The smell of greasy burgers and coffee still clung to my clothes. My legs felt heavy, and my lower back ached from carrying trays all night. Walking home alone didn’t feel safe—the streets were too quiet, and I’d heard too many stories. I pulled out my phone, opened the rideshare app, and booked a ride. The screen showed David, driving a blue hatchback, would pick me up in five minutes. I stepped outside, leaning against the diner’s rough brick wall, the neon sign above buzzing faintly. The street was empty, just a few parked cars and a distant streetlight casting long shadows.
The hatchback pulled up, its headlights cutting through the dark. I squinted at the license plate—it matched the app. I opened the back door and slid onto the worn leather seat, the faint smell of air freshener hitting me. David, a man in his 40s with short, graying hair and a faded denim jacket, turned to look at me. His face was lined, but his eyes were sharp, catching the light from the dashboard. “Long night at work?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost too friendly.
“Yeah, pretty busy,” I said, buckling my seatbelt. I kept my bag on my lap, hugging it close. He nodded, flashed a quick smile, and pulled onto the road. The radio played soft pop music, the kind you barely notice. For a moment, it felt like any other ride.
“You from around here?” David asked, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. I caught his gaze and looked away, focusing on the passing street signs.
“Born and raised,” I said, keeping my answer short. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but he didn’t seem to care.
“City’s changed, hasn’t it?” he went on, his hands loose on the steering wheel. “All these new high-rises, fancy shops. Used to be simpler, you know?” His tone was casual, but he kept glancing back, like he was studying me. My stomach tightened, but I brushed it off. Maybe he was just chatty.
“Yeah, it’s different now,” I mumbled, staring out the window. The familiar glow of the corner gas station passed by, and I relaxed a little, expecting the usual route home.
But then David turned left instead of right at the next intersection. The street was narrower, lined with dark storefronts and empty lots. “Wait, isn’t my place that way?” I asked, pointing back, my voice sharper than I meant.
He chuckled, a low sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, just taking a shortcut. Less traffic this way, gets you home faster.” His words sounded rehearsed, and the road ahead looked anything but busy. No cars, no pedestrians, just the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of a broken streetlamp. I checked my phone—the app still showed 10 minutes to my apartment, but the route looked wrong.
“Hey, can you stick to the main roads?” I said, trying to sound calm. My fingers tightened around my phone.
“Relax, I’ve been driving these streets forever,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re safe with me.” But his words felt hollow, and the way he kept checking the mirror made my skin crawl. I shifted in my seat, closer to the door, my heart thumping.
We drove in silence for a minute, the radio’s soft hum filling the car. Then, out of nowhere, the car made a horrible grinding noise, like metal tearing against metal. I flinched, my bag slipping to the floor. David cursed under his breath—not loud, but enough to make me tense. He slowed down and pulled into a deserted parking lot beside a shuttered convenience store. The lot was bathed in the dim glow of a single, flickering streetlamp, casting eerie shadows across the cracked pavement. No other cars, no people, just us.
“What’s happening?” I asked, my voice tight. I leaned forward, trying to see what he was doing.
“Engine’s acting up,” he said, his tone flat. He popped the hood and stepped out, leaving the driver’s door open. I watched him through the windshield as he leaned over the engine, poking at something with a small flashlight. My mind raced. Was this real? Or was he stalling? The lot felt like a trap, too far from any open businesses, too quiet for anyone to hear me if I screamed.
I grabbed my bag from the floor, my hands shaking, and checked my phone again. The app still showed my location, but the signal was weak—one bar. I thought about calling someone, but who? My roommate was out of town, and my coworkers were still closing up. I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.
David came back to the car, sliding into the driver’s seat but leaving the door open. He wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to me, his face unreadable. “Bad news,” he said. “It’s gonna be a while. I called for roadside help, but it could take 30 minutes, maybe an hour.”
“An hour?” I said, my voice rising. “Can’t you just drive? Or call another car?” My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get enough air.
“Not with the engine like this,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t want to risk breaking down somewhere worse.” He leaned back in his seat, too relaxed for my liking. “So, we wait. Might as well chat, right? What do you do for fun? Hobbies? You into movies, music, what?”
His question caught me off guard. Why was he so interested? We were stuck in the middle of nowhere, and he wanted to talk about my hobbies? “I don’t know,” I said, scooting closer to the door handle. “Just… normal stuff. Work keeps me busy.”
“Come on, you gotta have something you love,” he pressed, turning fully to face me. His eyes locked onto mine, intense, like he was searching for something. “You seem interesting. Bet you’re all over social media, posting about your life.”
My blood ran cold. “No, I’m not,” I said, my voice firm. I never posted anything public—no pictures, no check-ins, nothing with my real name. My profiles were locked tight. How could he think he’d seen me online? Was he guessing, or had he looked me up somehow?
“Sure you are,” he said, his voice dropping, almost teasing. “I swear I’ve seen your face before. Online, maybe a video or a photo. You look real familiar.” He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“You haven’t,” I said, my heart pounding so loud I thought he’d hear it. I fumbled with my phone, pretending to check the time. “Look, I need to let my friend know I’m delayed,” I said, my voice shaking. I dialed a random contact, a coworker who’d already gone home, and put it on speaker. “Hey, it’s me,” I said to the silent line, praying he’d buy the act. “I’m stuck in some parking lot. Car’s got issues. Can you stay on the line till I’m home? Just… just in case.”
David’s smile faded. He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tight, then turned back to the windshield. I held my breath, clutching the phone like a lifeline. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until his phone rang, the sound making me jump. He answered, his voice low. “Yeah, I’m handling it. Okay, fine.” He hung up, started the car, and the engine roared to life—no grinding noise, no hesitation.
“We’re good now,” he said, his tone cold. He pulled out of the lot without looking at me. I didn’t believe the engine had been fixed that fast, but I didn’t argue. I kept my phone in my hand, the fake call still “connected,” and watched every street sign, every turn. My apartment was only a few minutes away, but it felt like hours. David didn’t speak again, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The radio kept playing, but the music sounded warped, too loud in the tense air.
When we finally reached my building, I grabbed my bag and threw open the door. “Thanks,” I muttered, not waiting for a reply. I ran to the entrance, my keys slipping in my sweaty hands as I unlocked the door. I glanced back once—David’s car was still there, idling, his silhouette unmoving. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and raced up the stairs to my apartment, double-checking every lock.
As soon as I was inside, I reported him on the app, typing out every detail: the wrong turn, the “broken” car, the creepy questions, the social media lie. My hands shook so bad I had to rewrite parts. A few days later, the rideshare company emailed me. David was suspended, under investigation for “policy violations.” They didn’t give details, and I didn’t ask. The thought of what might’ve happened if I hadn’t faked that call, if his phone hadn’t rung, made my stomach churn.
I haven’t taken a rideshare alone at night since. Every time I pass that parking lot, I see his face in the rearview mirror, his eyes locked on mine. I don’t know what he planned, but I know I escaped something awful. And I’m not sure I’d be so lucky next time.
Tags:
Story