Plain Jeopardy. Alison Stone

pulled under the overhang meant to protect customers from the elements while they filled their tanks. The snow swirled violently, touching down in mini tornadoes. No overhang would protect the customers from those gusts. She shuddered, despite the warm air pumping from the heating vents. In the rearview mirror, she saw an Amish man with his collar flipped up, hunkered down in his wagon. He flicked the horse’s reins and continued to trot down the street in a steady rhythm.

      Suck it up, buttercup, she thought. At least she wasn’t exposed to the elements like the Amish man in his open wagon. How did they deal with the harsh winter? It reminded her of a story she had written about the homeless in Arizona. One man claimed he moved down there from Minnesota because if life had dealt him the unfair hand of being homeless, he would choose to live in the desert.

      Clearing her thoughts, Grace scanned the gas station parking lot. She had to keep her head in the game. Stay focused. The gas station and surrounding stores were mostly quiet except for a couple of vehicles parked along the fence on one edge of the parking lot. One car, covered in a layer of snow, was probably an employee’s. The other, a truck, looked like someone had recently parked and run into the attached minimart or a neighboring store on Main Street.

      No sign of someone lingering around to talk to her.

      Clicking her fingernails on the steering wheel, she watched the red digital number on the dashboard change to 8:01 p.m. Past experience told her that sources didn’t always keep to a schedule. Dreading the inevitable, she wrapped her scarf around her neck and pushed open the door. The arctic air rushed in, making her wish she was covering a story near the equator. “Where are you?” she muttered under her breath as she climbed out and scanned the parking lot again. It didn’t help that she had no idea who she was looking for.

      Grace waited half a second before lifting the pump from its slot and jamming it into the car’s tank, hoping that the letter writer approached before her ears froze off. She yanked down her hat. Sighing heavily, she swiped her credit card through the reader, selected 87 octane and began pumping. Because she refused to ruin her nice leather gloves, she didn’t wear them while she filled the tank. Seconds seemed like hours, and she wondered if she’d ever be able to uncurl her frozen fingers from the metal handle.

      She continued to sweep her gaze across the area while she pumped gas. The pump clicked off. If her secret informant was going to show, he’d better show now or she was getting back into her car and cranking up the heat before she turned into a popsicle.

      She turned to hang up the pump when she heard the deep rumble of an engine roaring to life. She spun around. The reverse lights lit up on the pickup truck parked nearby. Strange, since she hadn’t noticed anyone getting into it. She reached for the door handle on her car, convinced her pen pal had stiffed her.

      The sound of tires spinning drew her attention back to the truck. Her heart jolted into her throat. The driver sped in Reverse, barreling directly toward her.

      She dove to the side, fearing she’d be pinned between her car and the gas pumps. Visions of news coverage of fuel pumps ablaze and charred cars ran through her mind. She landed with an oomph and pain shot through her midsection from her recent appendectomy. Slushy wetness seeped through her clothes, adding insult to injury.

      The sound of metal crunching metal filled her ears. She desperately tried to scramble away in an awkward crab crawl. Craning her head, she caught sight of the pickup truck tearing out onto Main Street. Relief that he was leaving wrestled with anger that he was getting away, making her forget the pain shooting through her numb hands. The world shifted into slow motion. A bitterly cold wind turned her vision blurry, making it difficult to make out the profile of the departing driver.

      * * *

      The back end of a vehicle had been smashed against the fuel pumps, leaving Captain Conner Gates wondering what had happened here. When Dispatch sent him on the hit-and-run call, he had expected to see a fender bender and two drivers arguing over who was at fault.

      This was far more than a simple collision.

      An uneasy feeling swept over him as he pushed open the door on the patrol car and climbed out. Despite having grown up in Quail Hollow, he’d never get used to the cold. Squinting against a blast of wind, he inspected the crumpled back end of the vehicle driven against the cement base of the fuel pumps. No sign of a second vehicle. Unease tightened like a fist in his gut. The images from the night of his cousin’s fatal accident six weeks ago were seared into his brain. Well, technically, Jason was the son of a cousin, but he’d been like a brother to him. Jason’s pickup truck had clipped an Amish woman’s wagon then continued on, careening out of control and coming to rest wrapped around the solid trunk of a tree. Past experience told him no one could survive the brutal impact.

      Past experience had been right.

      Jason had died instantly.

      Blinking away the graphic image of the young man’s bloodied face, Conner muttered to himself that he hoped no one was injured tonight. He had long ago given up on prayer.

      The dispatcher hadn’t indicated any injuries.

      Conner flipped up his collar and shrugged his shoulders against the punishing winds. The harsh glare of the emergency lights on his patrol car cut across his line of vision. He caught sight of a woman standing inside the minimart with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The woman next to her, Erin, the gas station clerk in her green uniform vest, waved at him frantically. Conner stopped at the minimart at least once a shift for some friendly chatter and hot black coffee.

      He glanced around. There was only one other car in the lot, and it hadn’t sustained any damage. He spoke into his shoulder radio. “I’m at the gas station. Send a tow truck.” He yanked open the glass door and stepped inside. “You okay?” he asked the shivering woman. “Need an ambulance?”

      Her red fingers flitted in a quick wave of dismissal. “No. No ambulance. I’m okay.”

      He nodded briefly and relayed the information to Dispatch.

      Conner tugged off his leather glove and held out his hand. “I’m Captain Gates from the sheriff’s department.” Her hand was ice cold. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

      “Someone rammed into my car and took off.” Conner expected to hear fear in the woman’s tone. Instead, he was met by the hard edge of annoyance. “It’s my sister’s car,” she added, as if that might explain her tone.

      “It was horrible.” Erin rolled up on the balls of her orthopedic shoes and her eyes brightened with excitement. This was, after all, probably the most thrilling thing she’d witnessed in her fifty-odd years. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Always thought maybe someday someone would come crashing through the front of the store. You know?” She touched the arm of the woman standing next to her. If she had been looking for an ally, she didn’t find one in the woman’s steely gaze. The clerk continued, undeterred. “I see that all the time on the TV. But, wow, never seen anything like that in real life. He was aiming right for this lady’s car.”

      “You saw the accident?”

      “Yes,” Erin said. “I looked up when I heard the tires squeal. At first I thought it was on account of the snow and ice. But no, this was completely intentional. He tried to crush her between the car and fuel pumps.” The clerk’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t catch the license plate. He pulled in and parked there shortly before this lady arrived. Never came into the store. I didn’t think much of it because people use this parking lot all the time to shop at other stores. Easier than street parking.”

      “Did you notice anyone getting out of the truck?” Conner asked.

      “Can’t say that I did.”

      Conner directed his attention to the attractive woman who clasped a blanket tightly around her shoulders. Her attention was focused on the parking lot, or maybe her car. What was she searching for? “Any surveillance camera footage from that part of the parking lot?” Conner asked.

      “Doubtful. You’re free to look, though,” Erin