She knew her name was Jenna, but the gun in her purse suggested she was someone else entirely.
She sat in the driver’s seat of her sedan, the engine idling with a low, predatory hum. Her hands gripped the wheel at ten and two, but they didn’t feel like her hands. They were pale, trembling intruders. Five minutes ago, she’d been “Jenna Warren,” the girl who always stayed for one round too many but never lost her keys. Now, she was a ghost behind the glass.
The dashboard glowed with a sickly green light, illuminating a purse that looked like a stranger’s luggage. She reached inside, her fingers brushing against a cold, heavy object—metal, unyielding. It wasn’t a lipstick.
A shadow flickered across the driver’s side window. A man in a tan trench coat stood under the flickering neon sign of the bar, lighting a cigarette. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t move either. He was waiting.
Jenna looked into the rearview mirror. Her own eyes stared back, wide and hollow, stripped of every memory from the last twenty-four years. A name tag pinned to her blouse read Jenna, but it felt like a lie. A scrap of paper sat in the cup holder with an address scrawled in a frantic, jagged hand—her hand?
The man in the coat started walking toward the car. He didn’t look like a friend. He looked like a debt collector for a life she no longer owned.
She had two choices: put the car in drive and head toward the mystery address, or stay and face the man who seemed to know exactly who she was—even if she didn’t.
How does this end? Does Jenna drive into the dark, or does the man in the trench coat open the door? The final chapter is yours to write.