“Nice to meet you, Madison. I’m Rick.” I smiled at her. “Now how about you put down that tire iron before you hurt yourself, and let an old man show off his tire-changing skills?”
She lowered the tire iron slowly. Yet she was still shaking. Still glancing at her trunk. “You can’t call anyone,” she said. “You can’t tell anyone you saw me. Please.”
“Why not?” I asked, moving closer to examine the flat tire. It wasn’t just flat—the sidewall was blown out completely. This tire had been driven on while flat, probably for miles. “Madison, what’s going on?”
Before she could answer, I heard it. A small sound from inside the trunk. A whimper. A child’s whimper.
I froze. Madison’s eyes went wide with panic. “Please,” she murmured. “Please don’t call the police. Please.”
“Madison,” I said quietly. “Who’s in your trunk?”
Madison’s knees buckled, and she slid down against the side of the car, burying her face in her hands. The tire iron clattered against the asphalt.
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