I Won't Hurt You Anymore.
Chapter 1
– Highway Hijack
Midnight. The coastal highway stretched like a silver thread under the moonlight, empty and quiet, save for the hum of Emerie Caldwell’s sedan.
She reached to change the radio station, glancing at the dashboard clock.
“1:14 a.m. Damn,” she muttered. “Should’ve taken the earlier ferry.”
Her phone buzzed in the cupholder. A message from her fiancé:
**Still at the site? You okay?**
She smiled, thumbs flying:
**Just finished. Heading home. Road’s dead. Kinda creepy.**
The message sent. She sighed, letting the ocean wind ruffle strands of her ponytail through the half-open window. Then—
*THUD.*
Something slammed onto the hood.
“Jesus!” she screamed, swerving violently. Tires screeched.
A shadow moved—no, *leaped*—onto the passenger side. The door handle jiggled.
“Hey!” she shouted, fumbling for the lock. Too late. The door flew open.
A masked man lunged inside, shouting, “Drive!”
She froze. A knife gleamed in his hand.
“I said *drive!*”
“Get out!” she yelled, reaching across him, grabbing her umbrella from the floor.
He yanked the steering wheel. The car jerked toward the cliff edge.
Emerie jammed her elbow into his ribs, twisted, and drove the umbrella spike into his shoulder.
“AHH!” he howled, slashing wildly. She recoiled, kicked his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor.
She grabbed the pepper spray from her bag and fired full blast into his face.
He screamed again, clutching his eyes.
“Wrong woman,” she hissed.
With a grunt, she slammed the passenger door shut—hard. His arm caught. *Crunch.*
He shrieked, stumbling out, disappearing into the brush.
Emerie floored the gas.
---
Ten minutes later, she screeched into a gas station lot, tires squealing. The night clerk looked up from his magazine.
She burst through the glass doors. “Call 911! I was attacked!”
---
**Fifteen minutes later.**
Red-blue lights painted the concrete. Officers took photos of scratches on her arms, the umbrella, the knife. An EMT checked her vitals.
“I got away,” she repeated. “He tried to hijack me. I sprayed him. He fell. That’s all I know.”
Detective Cal Reyes nodded slowly. “He’s lucky you didn’t drive the spike through his eye.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not criticizing,” he said. “You did good, Miss Caldwell.”
Another officer approached. “We found a guy in a ditch a mile up. Pepper spray in his eyes, bleeding from the forearm. Knife in the grass. Looks like your guy.”
“Does he have a name?” she asked.
Reyes glanced at the file. “No ID on him. We’ll run his prints.”
Emerie folded her arms tightly, still trembling. “Can someone take me home?”
“After the lineup tomorrow,” Reyes said gently. “We’ll need you to confirm.”
---
**The next morning.**
“Are you ready?” Reyes asked.
Emerie stared through the one-way mirror. Six men stood in a row. One, third from the left, had a thick bandage wrapped around his arm.
“That’s him,” she said. “Number three.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”
Reyes nodded to the officer behind the glass. “We got him.”
Emerie stared at the man again.
He wasn’t twitching. Not cowering. He was... staring back.
As if he *knew* she could see him.
As if he wanted her to.
---
**Three days later.**
News vans camped outside the courthouse. Headlines screamed:
**“BRAVE ARCHITECT FIGHTS BACK!”**
**“MIDNIGHT ATTACKER FACES TRIAL.”**
Emerie sat stiffly beside the prosecutor, hands clenched under the table.
On the defense side, the attacker—now named “Anthony Doe”—sat silent, eyes flat and unreadable. His public defender whispered something, but he didn’t react.
She took the stand.
“Please describe what happened that night.”
She told them everything: the umbrella, the knife, the scream.
The jurors leaned in.
“He said nothing at first,” Emerie added. “Just ‘Drive.’ Like I was just... a tool.”
“Did he strike you?”
“No. But he threatened me. He had a weapon.”
The prosecutor nodded. “Thank you. No further questions.”
She stepped down, heart pounding.
Back in her seat, she glanced at the defendant.
He mouthed something.
She stiffened.
*You’ll remember me.*
---
**Verdict Day.**
“Guilty on all counts,” the foreman said.
Emerie didn’t breathe.
The judge spoke: “Given the defendant’s prior record and the severity of the offense, I sentence you to death by lethal injection.”
A gasp swept the courtroom.
The man—Antony, as she would later learn—didn’t flinch.
Just stared at her, like a man memorizing a name he would never forget.
---
Outside the courthouse, microphones and cameras swarmed her.
“Emerie, how do you feel?”
“Are you satisfied with the verdict?”
“Do you think justice was served?”
She swallowed.
“I just want to go home.”
---
**That night.**
Her fiancé wrapped her in a blanket, TV glowing in the background.
“You were amazing,” he said. “You didn’t let him win.”
She nodded, sipping tea. Her hands were still shaking.
Somewhere in a cell, the man who tried to hijack her car sat in silence.
Staring at a wall.
And maybe, still thinking about her.
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