The first time I questioned whether I could trust the man driving me home, he stopped the car in the middle of a deserted mountain road and told me to hide. We'd been driving for nearly four hours, and according to the GPS, the road we were on didn't exist. It started when our flight out of Denver was canceled after a company offsite. I'd only known Ethan Brooks for three days. He worked in corporate finance while I worked in marketing, and our conversations had barely gone beyond polite greetings. When the airline announced that the next available flight was two days away, Ethan suggested renting a car. “We're both heading toward Kansas City,” he said. “Might as well split the drive.” I agreed. That was my first mistake. My second was agreeing to take the scenic route through the mountains. For the first two hours, the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Ethan was funny, confident, and considerably more attractive outside his usual office clothes. We talked about work, terrible relationships, and why neither of us enjoyed company retreats. Then our GPS suggested a shortcut. A narrow road disappeared between towering pine trees. “Are you sure this is right?” I asked. Ethan glanced at the screen. “Says it'll save forty minutes.” Ten minutes later, the signal disappeared. The paved road turned to gravel. Then dirt. And finally, a narrow track barely wide enough for one vehicle. Dark clouds gathered above the mountains. “Ethan, we should turn around.” He slowed down. “Probably.” But before he could reverse, we heard something behind us. An engine. A black pickup truck appeared around the bend. It stopped about fifty yards away. Its headlights remained on. “Maybe they're locals,” I whispered. Ethan watched through the mirror. “Then why aren't they passing?” The pickup flashed its headlights twice. Then three times.