Too Sweet to Die T. Doyle (tharntype novel english .TXT) 📖

“Is it wrong I want to dose the dears with some Melatonin and Benadryl?” Vi’s normal sweet demeanor looked positively mischievous.

I glanced at my watch. “I think we just need to remind them Blue Bloods is on.”

“You can always count on Tom Selleck.” She headed to Mr. Garza’s room.

I texted Joe from my car at ten-fifteen. On my way home.

He didn’t reply, which meant he was still in surgery, and I probably wouldn’t see him before midnight. My mind buzzed with everything that had happened today.

I eased onto old CR22, renamed Old Briar Ridge Road when Sunnyview Villages Retirement Community purchased the old farm and developed the land. I fumbled with my phone, selected my playlist, and switched my car audio to Bluetooth. My car sped down the gentle descent of the road, and I braked around the first curve. The pedal squished but the car slowed. I hugged the curve. I tapped the brake again, but my speed increased, along with my heartbeat. Thirty-five, now forty, and then forty-two mph. I pumped the brake pedal hard but my car didn’t respond, speeding faster toward the next curve.

The small strip of shoulder dropped off to an irrigation ditch on either side of the road. The curve thirty feet away was banked, but my speed was increasing. Gravel pinged my wheel wells like warning shots. Cold prickled my neck and slid down my spine. I gripped the steering wheel, fingers frozen and clenched tight like I could somehow rein in the speed. My foot pumped the brakes and my brain screamed, slow down. Gravity pulled at me like I was on The Scrambler at the county fair, but the tires stayed on the road.

I dreaded the next curve, a hair-pin bend. My headlights reflected the three small white crosses for the Jameson family. Three lives swallowed by the curve’s ditch.

The car hurtled toward the curve at sixty mph and now four-hundred yards away.

My heart thundered in my chest. I slammed the useless brake pedal over and over. A hiss accompanied the squish of the pedal to the floor. The curve loomed three-hundred yards away.

My thoughts whiplashed between swears and prayers, and neither worked to slow the vehicle. If Joe was driving, what would he do? Downshift.

I stretched my stiff fingers and grabbed the gearshift, smacking the handle to low gear. The car lurched and my body snapped forward leaving my stomach behind. The seatbelt cut into my neck, and the car edged close to the shoulder. On uneven ground, the front tire caught the lip of the pavement and chewed and spit gravel. The back tire went off the pavement and my car tilted ominously toward the ditch. The curve was two-hundred yards away but the speedometer showed I’d slowed my speed down to forty-six mph.

My fingers tightly wound around the steering wheel and I nudged the car back onto the road, not wanting to lose control. The front tire hit the notched pavement, the rumple strip a reminder I was in danger of heading into the ditch, to my death. The tire thudded dud-dud-dud. The back wheel didn’t want to jump over the lip and back onto the pavement, and for a split second the car refused, sliding, sliding, sliding.

Bile rose in the back of my throat. I eased my foot onto the gas, a tentative tap to urge the car back onto the road. Both tires thudded over the strip and I pushed on the brake pedal again, the squish and hiss of the pedal sounded like the car was cursing. I flew past the yellow sign warning me to slow down to 20 mph. Not possible. My speedometer read fifty. The curve began, gentle at first but then the tires squealed. The white crosses stood like silent sentries–an ineffective guardrail.

I swallowed, sucking in a deep breath, and pulled at the steering wheel, following the yellow divider line. Inertia urged me closer to the crosses, and I fought the momentum to join them.

My car held the road, whether by physics or miracle.

My fingers clutched the wheel painfully tight, turning the wheel back to straight. My knuckles creaked and cracked, my breathing heaved. The downhill turned into uphill. The car slowed to forty-six mph, but my foot still pressed hard against the useless brake pedal.

I gulped air. My fingers tingled, the pain and panic congealed making every muscle in my body tense.

The car slowed to forty-four. Another breath and I forced my fingers to relax from their rigor mortis claw-like grip.

I glanced at the instrument panel for the hazard lights. My gaze danced from the dashboard to the road. The speedometer read forty-two mph and then forty-one. No traffic in front or behind me. The hazard button was located between the two air vents, but that meant I’d have to take my hands off the wheel, again.

My fingers ached but I blindly slid my hand to the vents, depressing the button. The yellow glow highlighted the road.

I slapped at the parking brake button. Nothing happened. The car chunked into a pothole and I yelped, steering wheel gripped, and kept the car inside the lane.

My eyes darted from the road to the speedometer. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six. Thirty-five. The crest of the hill approached. I worried I would reach the next downhill and speed up again. I pulled on the parking brake button. The car slowed to thirty and then twenty and then seventeen.

A new round of adrenaline poured into my bloodstream at my success. The ice in my veins flared hot and my hand trembled when I pushed the gear to neutral.

The car rolled on, the hum of the asphalt growing louder. The crest of the hill was too close. The shoulder was wider here, wide enough for me to pull over and park. I edged over to the shoulder. The tires stuttered over the rumple strip, first the right side, and then the left. The crest of the hill was fifty yards away. My speed read