On a long stretch of road somewhere between Missouri and Kentucky, our villainess, Dr. Cambric, has her pedal to the metal. The top’s down on the classic 1969 Chevy Camaro SS Convertible. Cherry red, the closest color to that precious lifeforce running through our veins. It’s the perfect car for her. Always has been. It’s a predator in traffic, fast, powerful, iconic, and just chaotic enough to feel dangerous without losing its class. Fascinating.

Her long red hair isn’t pulled back into a prim and proper ponytail that it normally is; instead, it hangs free, flapping gloriously in the wind like a superhero's cape. She continues unabated, treating the speed limit signs as suggestions, rendering them blurs of white and black as she rockets past them.

Up ahead, though, something catches her emerald greens. She shoves her shades atop her head and dips her brows. A stalled vehicle. In the middle of nowhere. In this scorcher of a summer afternoon. She eases off the gas and cops a look as she passes. Hood’s up. Liquid’s pooled under the engine. No sign of anybody, though. Oh well.

She shrugs, punches the gas, and turns the radio dial to the classics. “Hotel California” by the Eagles. Perfect. She cranks it up full blast and sings along as she tears up miles in her wake.

Soon her eyes fall upon a hitchhiker on the shoulder. A man. Not just any man. She recognizes him as she zooms past. “Hey! What the..” She mouths to herself and eases onto the shoulder. Throwing the car in reverse, she backs up until he’s reached her.

“Interesting,” She says with a head tilt and lifted brow. “Small world. Get in.”

TBCB They Know Who.