red hill - jamie mcguire

Chapter Four
Miranda
“WE’RE NOT DOING TO DIE,” Cooper said. “Try to stay calm.”
He had his arm wrapped around my older sister, Ashley, in the backseat, his eyes dancing as he
watched the chaos surrounding my VW Bug. He leaned against Ashley when yet another person ran by
and bumped the door.
“Damn it!” I said, frowning. “They’re going to scratch the paint!”
Ashley watched me in disbelief, but I couldn’t help but allow a little irrational anger to rise to the
surface. My brand-new, shiny white Volkswagen barely had time to let the custom paint dry, and these
assholes were rubbing up against it every time they passed.
“We’re at a standstill,” Bryce said, trying to see ahead. Bryce’s tousled brown hair grazed the
fabric of the Bug’s convertible top. He’d wanted to drive his Dodge truck to my dad’s ranch, but
Daddy was a fan of Ford, and I wasn’t going to listen to them discuss Rams versus F-150s all
weekend. “If you let the top down, I can get a better look.”
“Well that’s just stupid,” I said, my face scrunching in disgust.
My comment pulled Bryce’s attention away from the frightened pedestrians outside. “What”
I pointed over his shoulder. “There is a reason they’re running. I’m not going to expose us to
whatever that is.”
Traffic had slowed down to about twenty-five miles per hour no more than ten miles after we
merged onto the interstate to take our weekend road trip, and less than five miles later we were halted
to zero miles per hour. That was half an hour before, and we still hadn’t moved. Not even when
people started getting out of their cars to make a run for it.
“Just drive, Miranda. Get us the hell out of here. I don’t want to know what they’re running from,”
Ashley said, fidgeting with her long, wavy hair. She was beautiful like my mother: tall, thin, and
delicate. Her dirty-blond hair cascaded down each shoulder, reminding me of that girl from the Blue
Lagoon movie. If Ashley didn’t have a shirt on, it wouldn’t matter. With a few well-placed dots of
Elmer’s glue, her tits would be completely obscured by her hair.
Growing up, I used to be jealous of her natural beauty. My five feet, five inches made me look
dumpy next to her. I looked like my father: round face, dull brown eyes, and auburn hair . . . well,
Daddy’s was reddish before it turned white. Bryce preferred to call me athletically built, but what
did he know, he was six feet and six inches of meager man-child. His basketball coach worshipped
him, but when we were together, his tallness only made my shortness seem more obvious.
“You know what they’re running from,” I said, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Only
those in denial weren’t aware of what was happening.