The car crawled forward, moving through hundreds of yards of blind, rain-lashed darkness.

Violette Ellis didn't even notice her palms were slick with sweat. The roar of the downpour was deafening, forcing her to scream over the noise. "It’s useless! Driving like this is just as dangerous!"

The few hundred yards they had already covered were enough for Tessa Turner to snap out of her shell-shocked daze. She had grown up in Riverwood and knew these mountains like the back of her hand. In the past, landslides were a seasonal guarantee here, but the county had reinforced the slopes for the sake of tourism, and the roads had been stable for years. She had grown complacent, nearly forgetting the jagged reality of the terrain.

Living through it was a different breed of nightmare compared to reporting on it from a news desk. Tessa leaned out the window, her eyes squinting against the stinging deluge to track the road. Behind them, a massive section of the hillside had buckled, the ground soft and churning, threatening to drag more of the road down into the abyss.

She wiped the water from her face and shouted back, "I’ll watch the road! You drive!"

There was nowhere on this mountain pass that felt solid. Neither of them knew if the next inch of pavement would hold their weight or turn into a grave.

For the next mile, Violette drove as if she were drowning. Her clothes clung to her skin like a second layer of sodden lead. Tessa was no better off—between the freezing rain and the cold sweat of survival, she was shivering violently.

When the flags at the industrial plant gates finally flickered into view through the gloom, Tessa collapsed into the passenger seat, gasping for air. "Stop. We can’t go any further."

Without Tessa’s guidance, Violette couldn't read the road. She pulled over immediately. Peering out, she saw that the road here had reinforced railings, a small mercy near the water plant that made it safer than the stretch they’d just navigated. Still, it was hardly an ideal sanctuary.

She grabbed a stack of napkins and frantically blotted the water from her hair. "Is this okay?"

The moment she spoke, Violette realized her voice was shaking. She coughed hard, trying to steel herself, and tried again. "Can we stay here?" This time, the tremor was hidden, masked by sheer force of will.

"I just can't keep going," Tessa muttered, a grimace of pain twisting her face as she patted her left leg.

Violette glanced down. The leg Tessa had been using to brace herself against the car door was visibly swollen and misshapen. Her pants were soaked through, dripping into a growing puddle on the passenger floorboard. For the last mile, Tessa had been half-hanging out the door to guide them, putting the entire weight of her upper body on that injured leg.

"When did you get hurt?" Violette gasped.

Tessa touched the throbbing swelling and hissed. "I twisted it when I scrambled back into the car."

Violette bit her lip, calculating. "If it’s too bad, I can inch us forward. We aren't that far from the plant."

"Don't risk it," Tessa said, waving a hand weakly. "I remember a sharp turn right around here where a semi once took out the railing. I don't even know if they ever put it back up."

They sat in silence. Violette handed Tessa some napkins, which the girl used to wipe her face with frantic, uneven swipes.

"Just let me catch my breath," Tessa whispered. "Then we’ll move."

***

By nightfall, Emma Fox hadn't seen Violette return. She called Quinton Rogers, the show's producer, and they met in the hotel lobby. Quinton frowned, his brow furrowing deeper. "Violette’s phone is off. No signal or dead battery, but it’s been long enough for them to have made the trip twice over."

"I know," Emma said, her voice tight. "How could they still be up there?"

Quinton checked with the front desk, only to be told there had been no sign of them. He tried calling again. Dead air.

As dinner hour approached, the lobby began to fill with guests. A group of young, athletic men walked past them, laughing.

"Seriously? Who schedules outdoor practice in a storm like this?"

"Maybe the coach just wants to test our resolve. You’re always playing the pampered prince, maybe you need the grit."

"You think I’m on Blake Pierce's level? I’ve got a long way to go before I reach that kind of intensity."

Under normal circumstances, Emma might have recognized the face that appeared in every shipping thread online. But tonight, with Violette missing, her nerves were frayed. She blamed herself for losing the recording equipment and looked up at Quinton, her voice trembling on the verge of tears. "Quinton, do you think… do you think something happened to her?"

"It’s probably just a dead battery," he said, though he didn't sound convinced.

Before he could finish, one of the calls he’d been chasing finally connected. It was the supervisor at the industrial plant.

"I just found out," the supervisor said. "A truck driver radioed in. A section of the road collapsed. We’re waiting for emergency repairs."

"A landslide?" Quinton’s voice rose, cutting through the lobby’s chatter. "Did you see our reporter? Violette Ellis! The anchor from the station! She’s still up there!"

The group of young men who were about to exit froze.

One of them turned, his expression darkening. "Who?"

Emma was still wearing her station badge, the vibrant orange logo catching the light. Blake Pierce’s eyes locked onto it instantly. He strode toward them, his presence commanding the space. "Who are you talking about? Who is still on the mountain?"

***

Violette had always believed she was one of fate’s favorites.

She’d had a passionate romance and a marriage that served its purpose perfectly—she had everything others envied. Her career had skyrocketed, landing her in the anchor’s chair faster than anyone else. Even her descent from the mountain had been swift, almost sudden.

But on the whole, luck had usually been on her side.

Which was why this series of blows—the storm, the landslide, and now a car that refused to turn over—felt like a cruel mockery. *See?* fate seemed to sneer. *Every gift comes with a hole waiting for you to fall into.*

Tessa’s leg was incapacitated, one of their phones was water-logged, and the other was dead. Violette had considered trekking to the plant for help, but in this deluge, staying in the car was the only logical choice.

Tessa was dead set against her leaving. In a way, if someone from the news station went missing on her watch, she would be the one answering for it.

They waited until nightfall. With no heat and no lights, the car was nothing more than a metal shell, a temporary shelter from the wind and rain.

"Will anyone from the plant pass by tonight?" Violette asked.

"They should," Tessa replied, her entire body shaking—whether from the cold or the pain, Violette couldn't tell. "They usually have a shift change at nine."

"What if they know about the landslide and stop the shift?"

"Then the rain should stop," Tessa said. "If that happens, it’s only a twenty-minute walk up to the plant."

Their worst-case scenario was waiting for the rain to break so Violette could climb. Violette had draped her own waterproof jacket over Tessa, but the water seeping in through the window frames had already soaked the seats. Neither of them was dry.

When they weren't speaking, the only sound in the cabin was the metallic *click-clack* of a cigarette lighter cap snapping shut.

In the darkness, the flame flickered on and off. It was like a tiny beacon counting down the seconds, a singular pulse of light in the freezing void.

"Violette," Tessa said, handing the lighter over. "You warm your hands now."

The metal casing was searingly hot from the constant use. Violette held it against her palms for a moment before handing it back. "I’m good. Take it back."

"Your teeth are chattering," Tessa said, trying to find a bitter sliver of humor.

"Yours are, too."

For a fleeting second, Violette wondered: what if no one knew they were trapped here? What if a torrent of mud suddenly swept the car off the cliff?

There were no answers.

She turned her head to look out the window. The mountains were a wall of black; there were no lights, and the visibility was worse than it had been at the peak of the storm. In the distance, the faint, pale geometry of the reinforced concrete slopes provided her with the only shred of security she had left.

"Violette, do you see something?"

"What?" Violette licked her dry lips. "Now is not the time for ghost stories."

Tessa laughed, a hollow, rattling sound. "I’m not in the mood for it, either."

She pointed toward the rearview mirror. "I think I see a light. Like headlights."