A Cry in the Dark (Carly Moore #1) - Denise Grover Swank

Chapter One

“No, no, no, no, NO!” I shouted, banging the heel of my hand on the steering wheel of my Honda.

“Dammit!”

This could not be happening again.

I popped the hood of my car, got out, and circled around the front. It took me three tries to get the hood propped on its stand, but I wasn’t sure why I was even bothering. I hadn’t learned anything about car engines since my last car had broken down in Southern Arkansas, where, I’d met people who’d helped me, strangers who had become friends. That kind of luck didn’t happen twice.

Leaning over the engine, I looked over all the hoses—intact—and the radiator—not steaming—which meant I had no idea what was wrong with it.

I was in a parking lot off Highway 25 at a scenic pull-off overlooking the Smoky Mountains and what I presumed was the Tennessee–North Carolina state border. It was an off-the-beaten-path road, which meant I was basically in the middle of nowhere. I’d crisscrossed the state lines a couple of times since I’d left Gatlinburg, but I was fairly sure I was currently in Tennessee—only fairly sure because I’d lost cell service a couple of hours ago.

I was in big trouble.

Pissed, I swiped my hair out of my face and turned to face the view, suddenly overcome with rage. The fact that it was beautiful just made me madder. I’d pulled over to the lookout on a whim less than five minutes ago, wanting to get one last look at the Smokies. I’d spent a few minutes staring at them, soaking in the sight and trying to feel something, only to return to the car and find it wouldn’t start.

I pulled the burner phone I was using out of my jeans pocket, not surprised to still see the no service symbol in the top left corner. Which meant I couldn’t call a roadside service. Besides, where would I have them tow it? The last town I remembered passing through was in North Carolina, but that had been a good hour or so ago, minus this stop. The tow bill was going to be astronomical.

What in the hell was I going to do?

The hum of an approaching car caught my attention, and I wasn’t sure whether to hide or try to flag the driver down. Ideally, I’d check out who was in the car before making the decision. A family with kids was a safe-enough bet. A solitary guy in a beat-up truck—maybe not. The problem was that the lookout was at the edge of a curve in the road, so I wouldn’t have much opportunity to make the call.

The car breezed by, a small, older hatchback. I couldn’t make out who was inside, but the way they zoomed past and kept on going, it was obvious they weren’t going to stop.

Which meant I had no choice but to wait for the next car.

The next vehicle didn’t show up for another twenty minutes. The 18-wheeler was struggling to handle the steep downgrade, its brakes announcing its appearance a good thirty seconds before it drove right on past, but I’d already decided I was okay with that. I’d heard too many stories about over-the-road truckers, although I suspected most had been embellished.

I briefly considered sitting inside the car. I was still standing outside, my butt leaning against the driver’s door so I could get a good view of the approaching vehicles. The early November mountain air was chilly, probably in the 40s—cold enough the cold metal of the car cut right through my jeans. But I stayed put. I’d take the cold over the stench of smoke ingrained in the interior.

My plan, inasmuch as I had one, was to head to Wilmington and look for a job. It would be suitably far from the people who were looking for me, plus I’d always liked the ocean. But en route to the coast, the sign for Gatlinburg had grabbed at me. My mother’s grandparents had taken her there when she was a kid and my mom had told me that story so many times that after all these years I still remembered their trip as if I’d been there myself. She’d been dead for over two decades, and they’d been gone for even longer, but I still missed her. Fiercely.

So I’d taken the exit to Gatlinburg hoping I’d feel closer to her if I did all the things she’d told me about. Hoping it might…inspire me in some way. But it turned out that Dollywood was