The Devil’s Road Chapter 3: Temptations and Dark Discoveries on the Blood-Soaked Highways
With each mile, the mystery deepens. Heather’s dangerous choices and the shadowy figure of the Driver bring us closer to unearthing the deadly secrets hidden along Oklahoma’s haunted roads.
The road winds deeper, Faithful Rambler. Today we press on with Chapter 3 of The Devil’s Road, where blood still stains the asphalt and our elusive Driver remains a shadow in the distance. For those just joining, there’s a trail of death stretching behind us(ch. 1 & ch. 2), and with each chapter, we draw closer to uncovering the truth buried in the dust.
With each passing day, you’ll receive the next installment, unraveling the mystery piece by piece. So buckle up, stay wary of desolate truck stops, and remember to share this gothic tale of highways haunted by both the living and the dead.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.



Chapter 3: An Itch to be Scratched
issue one — heather’s temptation
Heather’s daddy always said there’s no such thing as good luck. Luck, he believed, was forged through perseverance, hard work, determination, and a damn good grift. He even had a name for his: “The Mississippi Man,” after his favorite Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn song. Just like Conway convinces Loretta to swim across the wide, muddy Mississippi River, despite the gators lurking beneath the surface, Heather’s daddy could sweet-talk most women into almost anything, even after branding them with the burning end of his Camel Wide cigarettes.
Heather finishes applying her makeup in the bathroom mirror, pursing her lips to spread the bright red lipstick evenly—the same shade her momma always wore for daddy. She grabs her t-shirt off the sprinkler head jutting out from the wall. Nobody ever asks why there’s a sprinkler in the shower, but then again, most people are too busy with the piece of ass they’ve brought along to notice the small lens pointed toward the stalls. Heather flips off the hidden camera and pulls her Green Day shirt back over her bra.
The mirrors are foggy, but the reflection they give back is still the cold, hard truth. Heather would’ve preferred a lie. She straps on her fanny pack, gives it a quick squeeze to ensure her “asshole deterrent” is secure, and strides out of the bathroom and through the store.
Darlene looks up from behind the counter. “Don’t know why you won’t let me get you on tape. We could make some good cheddar with those little puppies you’ve got under that shirt,” she says. Heather flashes her bra and blows Darlene a kiss as she steps outside.
In the parking lot, a dozen tractor-trailers sit in the dusty gravel, lined up near the Interstate 40 turnoff. Heather scans her options. The art of selection is a delicate dance between intuition and pure animal instinct, but sometimes, it’s just plain simple.
A “J.B. HUNT” rig idling in the pack catches her eye—an easy target. Most of their drivers are family men, worn down from the road, usually too tired to put up a fight. The Adderall comedown can turn them into zombies for twelve hours—plenty of time to pilfer any treasures hidden between the seats.
Heather climbs up on the driver’s side rail and knocks on the window. No response. She presses her face to the glass, cupping her hands to peer inside. The cab is empty. She tries the handle, but it’s locked.
“Hey! Can I help you?” a voice calls from behind. Heather spins around, her hand darting to the zipper of her fanny pack. The truck driver raises both hands in surrender.
“Whoa. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
Heather’s thumb hovers over her pepper spray, aimed at the driver. He’s a small guy—she probably outweighs him. A nervous grin spreads across his face, and she recaps the safety.
“Sorry. You startled me,” Heather says.
The truck driver pulls his keys from his pocket. “Yeah, no shit. What were you doing trying to open my door?”
“Just checking it,” she stalls.
“Checking it? For what?” he asks, brushing past her to unlock his door. He pokes his head inside to make sure everything is as it should be. Satisfied she didn’t get in, he turns back to Heather, who smiles up at him from his seat. A wave of realization hits him.
“No. No, ma’am. No thank you.” The truck driver slams the door, leaving Heather with a strikeout on her first at-bat. She sighs deeply and walks back through the lot to reassess.
The sun blazes overhead now, and even with her shirt tied up and loose cut-offs on, she’s sweating just standing still. She walks past a cab from an independent line, catching sight of the driver’s long fingers waving at her from behind the steering wheel. She waves back but keeps moving. At least she knows she won’t strike out three times.
The only other cab idling is a tanker, and though she knows it’ll reek like a mechanic’s garage inside, independent drivers tend to be a bit rough. She climbs the cab’s side rails and knocks on the glass. The cab shifts, and she hears movement inside. Heather steps down, ready to run if things get weird.
The window cracks open slightly, revealing the brim of a hat just above the tinted glass. “Yeah?” a voice inside grunts.
“Hey there. Thought you might want some company,” Heather offers. The red brim of the hat disappears as the window rolls back up. She waits, unsure if that was a rejection. As sweat beads form on her neck and start to trickle down her back, she decides it’s strike two.
Heather turns to find the independent trucker when the cab of the tanker opens, revealing a large man shifting over to the passenger side.
“Come on in, little darlin’,” the voice invites from inside the cab.
Heather reaches up to pull herself into the cab, but the chemical stench wafting out is overwhelming. She steps back to catch her breath.
“What’s the matter, lassie?” the voice asks.
“Sorry, it’s… I can’t. That smell… I’m just not going to…” Heather trails off, walking back toward the independent cab.
“Hey, we were talkin’. Get the hell back over here, you little bitch,” the voice spits through the opening, but Heather is already out of earshot.
The independent trucker rolls down her window as Heather approaches.
“How about you? You interested?” Heather asks.
“Shit, that ain’t much of a sales pitch,” the trucker says from her perch.
“Yeah, well, it’s fucking hot, and I’ve got rent to pay. So if you’re interested, great. If not, then fuck off.” Heather turns to leave.
“Sweetie,” the trucker calls, leaning out of her window. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”
Heather turns back, looking up into the cab window for the first time. Maybe it was the cowboy hat that threw her off, but now she sees the trucker’s massive bosom barely contained in her work denim. “How much?” the trucker asks, and Heather is certain she’s hit a home run.
In the bathroom, Heather rhythmically runs her tongue over the lady trucker’s neck, finding a spot just below the ear that makes her moan—good news because it means less effort elsewhere. Not that her hands aren’t busy too, searching for the right button to press. The trucker’s moans grow louder, her hips start to jerk, and Heather struggles to keep them both upright against the wall. As the trucker climaxes, they slide toward the sink, and Heather’s hip painfully collides with the porcelain edge. She catches a flash of metal as something falls from the light fixture and clangs against the concrete floor. Finally, the trucker finishes, pushing herself up and off Heather, who was pinned between the sink and the wall.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” the trucker says, tossing a couple of twenties into the sink and zipping her pants before heading out. Heather picks up the cash and stuffs it into her shorts. She turns on the faucet—hot water only—and pumps four large squirts of pink, gooey soap into her hand while waiting for the water to warm. She scalds her skin with the hot water and soap until her hands are a maddeningly red from the torture.
As she’s heading for the door, her foot kicks something on the ground. It’s the metal object they knocked loose earlier. She bends down and picks up a lever. Looking under the sink, it matches the lever where the water line connects to the wall, but it didn’t come from there. Standing on her tiptoes, she reaches up and runs her hand over the light fixture, knocking another piece of metal into the sink. She grabs the nut as it rolls around the basin, just before it slips down the drain.
Heather traces the line of the wall until she reaches the toilet, where she sees the water connector is missing a lever. She slides the lever back onto the post, and it fits perfectly. She reassembles the lever as best she can without tools, turns on the water, and hears it start flowing again.
“No good deed goes unturned,” she says to the room and to any good karma out there searching for a lost soul to save. The water stops abruptly—far too fast for the tank to have filled. She pulls the toilet lid off.
Inside the tank is the duffle bag left by Moses. Heather locks the bathroom door and pulls the wet bag free from the tank. She lets it drip on the floor for a moment before placing it on the toilet lid. Her hands start to shake. She grabs the metal zipper tab between her thumb and forefinger, slowly pulling it along the seam. It’s slippery, and she loses her grip after moving it just a couple of inches, but that’s all she needs to see inside.
It’s been nearly a year since she’s seen crystal meth. The last time this devilish little rock crossed her path, she spent two weeks in the psych ward followed by six weeks in lockup. She feels a familiar tickle in the tips of her fingers and toes. Once an addict, always an addict. Heather is looking at a score with a street value higher than any money she could have ever dreamed of, and she knows exactly what to do with it. Maybe daddy was wrong. Sometimes, you do get lucky.
issue two — on assignment
The difference between discipline and vengeance might just be a matter of perspective. Captain James looms over Sam, towering a full fourteen inches above her, yet his hands are shockingly small in proportion to his massive frame. Sam’s attention fixes on one finger, the one wagging in front of her face as he berates her for simply doing her job.
That finger, with its unsettling smallness, is the only thing keeping her from indulging in the fantasy of seeing blood spurting from the Captain’s nose as her fist connects. The allure of violence is intoxicating, a moment of brief levity that must be carefully weighed against many factors—chief among them, her bank account. Samantha’s account is far too familiar with the color red, and she needs this job for reasons beyond just money. So she stands firm as Captain James finally runs out of breath, or maybe it’s just his finger giving out.
The words, though clearly important to Captain James, wash over Sam. This isn’t the first, and certainly won’t be the last, time she’s been subjected to a dressing-down from her superior. In fact, she’d probably lose faith in the system if he didn’t at least make the effort.
“Lieutenant, that’s an order, and I expect you to follow it.” Captain James barks, huffing and puffing as he tries to rein in his blood pressure, which seems perpetually perched on the edge of stage one hypertension.
Sam sees her chance to escape and tries to head for her cruiser, but Captain James steps into her path. “And I expect those files to be returned to the station when you get back.” He’s almost completely winded now.
“Affirmative, Captain,” she replies.
“You know, Samantha, if one of the other fellas tried to pull…” A series of harsh coughs interrupts him, followed by a long wheeze, but somehow he regains his breath, steadying himself. “…tried to pull that bullshit on me, I’d have had his badge.” He waits, expecting a response. Unfortunately for Sam, he’s fully recovered and doesn’t seem ready to back down this time, but neither is she.
“So kind of you to give a lady a break. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got a local to assist on a drunk driving call, Captain’s orders.” Sam shoves past her superior officer.
James spins around as she pushes past, and his blood pressure spikes once more. “Goddamn it. Samantha, you gotta quit chasing her ghost.” Her fingers tremble as she digs into her chinos for the key to her cruiser, but she can’t let him see her upset.
“She’s been dead for going on five years now,” he continues.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” Sam says over her should as she carries the camera equipment to the trunk of her car parked by the roadside. If she can get it stowed away without having to face him again, that would be ideal. But the keys have other plans. As she pulls them free from her pocket, they slip through her fingers, flying into the air. She tries to snatch them mid-flight, but she’s not fast enough. They tumble behind the car and skid along the asphalt, out into the highway. She steps onto the road to retrieve them just as a blaring horn pierces her eardrums. Sam leaps back as a semi-truck hurtles past on Highway 443.
It’s been nearly thirty years since Captain James ran forty yards in under six seconds, but today he finds there’s still some fuel left in the tank. Sam stumbles backward down the slope off the road and into the ditch, her hat flying off as her long hair tumbles loose. She lands in the dirt, and James reaches her just in time to offer a hand, which she swats away, getting up on her own with a defiant, “Fuck you!” Sam brushes herself off as she climbs back up to the roadside. This time, she looks both ways before retrieving her keys.
She places the camera in the trunk. Captain James opens the door for her to climb into the driver’s seat of her cruiser. If he thought she was looking for chivalry, the look on her face as she settles into the car tells him otherwise.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” Sam says.
“Then return the files. There’s a process here, and I expect you to follow it. Copy?” James says, dropping her hat onto her lap.
“Copy,” she replies, shutting the car door.
James leans down and taps on the driver’s side window. Sam doesn’t roll it down, but she does turn her head toward him so he knows she’s listening. He points to her left cheek.
“You’ve got something right there,” he says, tracing a finger along the path of a red streak on her face. Sam looks in the rearview mirror. Starting under her eye and disappearing behind her ear on the left side of her face is a streak of dried blood. It’s not hers. She nods at the Captain and starts the engine.
Captain James glances up the hill at the corpse and the small group of officers and technicians combing the site. They’re all too absorbed in their work to have noticed the spat between him and Lieutenant Hart. All except one. Bandy is facing away from the body, hands on his knees as if inspecting something on the ground. The likelihood of Bandy contributing anything meaningful to this investigation is slim to none, and he proves as much as whatever fight he had left abandons him, and he vomits into the grass.
“Jesus Christ, Bandy!” James hollers up the hill.
Bandy sees the Captain standing near the roadside, hands on his hips, and knows he’s been ordered to go down there. But he’s got one more… another stream of this morning’s eggs and toast hits the grass. Bandy moves as quickly as he can toward the Captain, though not too fast—he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s running away.
“Captain James,” Bandy says, reporting for duty.
“Bandy, hop in your cruiser and assist Lieutenant Hart on that drunk driving call she’s heading to, okay?” James orders.
“Oh, I mean, I can take it by myself. I know Sam got pretty pissed off when you told her she had to leave and couldn’t stay on the case.”
“Bandy, if I want any shit out of you, I’ll squeeze your head. Now get moving,” James says as he heads back up the hill to aid in the investigation. Bandy nods in agreement, as if he had a choice in the matter.
Sam opens the glove box of her cruiser. Inside, she has a small evidence collection kit with everything needed, from gunpowder residue testing to fingerprinting. She pulls out a cotton swab, a dropper of liquid, and a clear evidence bag. She applies two drops to the swab and gently wipes at the blood on her face. The wet swab absorbs a small amount of the dried blood.
There’s a quick rap on her driver’s side window that startles her. Outside, Bandy is leaning over, rotating his fist in the universal gesture for “roll down your window.” Samantha taps the button to lower it.
“Oh man, I didn’t know the new models had power windows,” he says.
“What is it, Bandy?” she asks.
“What’s that on your face there?” he asks, pointing to the now smeared red streak on her cheek.
“What’s that on your tie, Bandy?” she counters.
Bandy looks down and sees a small egg-colored stain on his uniform tie. He pulls out a hanky from his back pocket and wipes at it as he tries to explain.
“Well, Captain James thought maybe you could use some support on that drunk driving call, and, well, you know me, I wouldn’t want to see you getting into any trouble out there by yourself—”
That’s about all the condescension Sam can tolerate in one morning. “Bandy, just get in your cruiser and follow along.”
“Yes, sir… uh, ma’am. Lieutenant!” Bandy stammers, fumbling for his keys as he walks toward his cruiser.
Sam rolls her window back up and watches as Bandy eventually makes his way to his car. He’s a lingerer, one of those people who can’t seem to pick up on the social cues that clearly say, “Leave me the hell alone.”
She continues to follow the streak down her cheek until the tip of the swab is a dark maroon. If theses bodies had been men, or even something else besides what they were, this would be a media circus by midday. She drops the swab into the evidence bag, labels it “CASE 4490,” and places it back in her glove box. She uses her shoulder and upper arm to wipe the solution and the rest of the blood off her face.
issue three — the organization
Putting your trust in the system feels as reckless as sticking your fingers in a garbage disposal without checking if the power is off. The switch is right there on the wall, but the fear of being mangled by a machine designed to destroy is ever-present. Sheriff Samantha Hart clenches her jaw, the weight of returning the files on missing persons from her trunk to the same system that has ignored the growing pile of bodies weighing heavily on her. These were women discarded by society because they were sex workers, as though their circumstances made them less important, less worthy, less human. But her sister wasn’t less human, and Sam swore her death would not go unanswered.
Sam pulls up behind a couple of local cruisers from Gore, Oklahoma. Across the street, an overturned brown Chevy Caprice lies in a ditch in front of a trailer that looks like it should have been condemned years ago. The officers stand with hands on their hips, revolvers at their sides, staring down at a man sitting in the grass. Sam kills the engine and steps out into the sweltering heat.
“Afternoon, fellas. What do we have here?” she asks.
“Ma’am,” the first officer starts.
“Lieutenant,” Sam corrects him, flatly.
“Okay. Lieutenant, this here is Mac Gibbons, and that there overturned automobile across the road appears to be his car,” says the officer, whose brass tag reads Johnson. The other officer, Williams, nods along.
“And how can the Sequoyah County Sheriff’s Office assist you? I can smell the booze on him. Not sure what you need from us. Got a full plate today, gentlemen,” Sam says.
“Well, as you can see, Mr. Gibbons crawled from his car over there on the county side of the road to this side, which is Gore's jurisdiction,” Johnson replies. Sam’s dead stare suggests she’s going to need more explanation.
“That’s county land, and this side here’s in Gore’s jurisdiction,” he adds.
Bandy’s cruiser pulls up and parks behind Sam’s. He checks himself in the rearview mirror, pops a piece of gum into his mouth, and straightens his vomit-stained tie before joining the group.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle—is that Mac Gibbons?” Bandy says as he walks up. “What the hell have you gone and done, son?” he asks Mac.
Mac barely lifts his head to look at Bandy. He squints against the sun, a smile forming as he sees a familiar face. His large belly bounces with laughter as it bubbles up from deep inside him.
“Holy shit! If it ain’t ole Band-Aid,” Mac says, attempting to stand. Officer Williams places a hand on Mac’s shoulder, pushing him back down into the dirt. “Hey, what the fuck?” Mac grumbles as he hits the ground again.
“You know Mr. Gibbons, Bandy?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, we went to high school together. He’s always been as mean as a box of snakes,” Bandy replies.
“That his car?” Officer Johnson asks.
“Well, that’s his trailer. Not sure about the automobile,” Bandy says.
“Tell you what. We’ll go take a look at the car, see what’s what, and you two stay here and keep an eye on Gibbons. But just to be clear, he’s being booked in Gore.”
“But his car…” Officer Williams starts.
“As you said, his car is on the county side. Mr. Gibbons is on Gore’s side,” Sam says. She motions for Bandy to follow her as they walk across the street toward the overturned car. Behind them, Mac rolls over, a loud, gaseous fart erupting from his body, followed by the unmistakable sound of him soiling his pants.
“Goddamn it! He ain’t ridin’ in my cruiser,” Williams protests.
“The hell he ain’t,” Johnson retorts.
Sam and Bandy leave the two officers to argue over who has to transport the soiled drunk and approach the overturned car. The roof of the interior is littered with cigarette butts and tiny liquor bottles. Bandy picks up one of the small bottles.
“Is this like those ones you get in hotels? Why in the hell is he drinking out of these?” Bandy asks.
“My daddy used to drink those. A lot of alcoholics like the little ones ‘cause they fit in your pocket. It’s always vodka too. They think they’re hiding the smell, but they most certainly are not,” Sam says, kneeling beside the car. She pulls a pen from her shirt pocket and turns over a pair of ratty blue jeans, revealing a plastic shopping bag. Another shopping bag.
The bag floating away in the wind at the crime scene earlier flashes in her memory. The logo is the same—a red wheel with flames coming out of one side. It’s generic, could have come from anywhere. She carefully peels back the opening to see what’s inside. No blue rags this time, just more empty liquor bottles and a wadded-up receipt.
“Let’s take a look at the trailer,” she says.
“But if it’s just a drunk driving stop…” Bandy trails off at the look from Sam. “Yep, let’s check that trailer,” he agrees.
They both wince at the odor emanating from within the structure. “He’s definitely been cooking in there,” Bandy says.
Methamphetamine labs have sprouted all over rural Oklahoma, and the stench is unforgettable. Bandy walks up the concrete block steps and tries to peer through the window in the door. It’s covered with paper on the inside, making it impossible to see through.
“Covered. I could crack the window on the door. If we see something, that’s probable cause,” Bandy suggests.
“No. This needs to be by the book,” Sam insists.
They walk around the trailer together, checking the other windows, but each is sealed tight from the inside. Around the back, they find a pile of construction materials. Sawdust blows in the wind, and the scent of freshly cut lumber lingers in the air.
A large mound is covered by a blue tarp, held down by several two-by-fours to prevent it from blowing away. Sam kicks the boards free as Bandy tugs on the tarp. Underneath are tools, an electric saw, and a raised mound with a newly installed door leading underground.
“Building a tornado shelter?” Bandy guesses.
Sam bends down, sticking her hand in the hole where a handle should be. “No harm in taking a look,” she says, pulling open the door.
Bandy clicks on his flashlight, and they walk down the dirt stairs into the shelter. The air is thick with dust from the unfinished walls. Two-by-fours reinforce the crumbling dirt walls, but they don’t stop the light from Bandy’s flashlight from shaking as they descend deeper into the earth.
“I’m not so sure we should be going down here,” Bandy whispers.
Sam places a hand on his shoulder, urging him forward. Her touch gives Bandy a small jolt of courage, and he continues into the darkness.
The stairs end in a large, open room with a concrete floor. Plywood walls create a makeshift space, with shelves of canned food and a desk against the far wall, topped with a ham radio and microphone.
Sam spots a cord on the ground and points it out. Bandy traces his light along the cord until it splits open, revealing raw wires connected to a switch on one of the shelves. Bandy uses the end of his flashlight to flip the switch, careful to avoid the exposed wires.
Lights flicker on around the room, revealing a mural behind the desk and radio. The mural is of a hangman’s noose dangling from a gallows on a hilltop, while below, a mass of bodies burn in red flames. Scrawled across the top of the mural are the words, “The Day of the Rope.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sam asks.
Bandy lowers his head, ignoring the question, and continues to search the room. He pulls back an old canvas cloth draped over a pile of crates. The lid of the top crate slides off, revealing a small cache of rifles. Bandy picks up one of the weapons.
“Sam, I think we might have a bit more going on here than a drunk driving incident,” Bandy says, showing her the weapon.
“Holy shit. Is that an automatic?” she asks.
Bandy nods in confirmation. Sam takes the weapon from him, ejects the clip, and sees it’s fully loaded.
“I’ll, uh… I’ll go call it in, I guess,” Bandy stammers, backing toward the stairs. Sam nods as Bandy runs back to his cruiser to use the radio. She replaces the gun in the crate and continues to explore the room. On the desk are stacks of dog-eared journals and maps of the surrounding area, with pen markings along some of the local highways.
On top of the radio is a book with a red cover. The title reads, “The Turner Diaries.” A Polaroid sticks out of the book like a makeshift bookmark. Sam can see the content of the photo. She wants to reach out and grab it, but something stops her. She’s suddenly paralyzed, unable to move. She hears the sound of rain falling, though the sun is still shining above. A drop runs over her forehead and down her cheek. Another lands on her sleeve, darkening the fabric. She stares at the water stain, knowing it can’t be real.
She’s not sure how, but suddenly the Polaroid is in her hand, gripped between her thumb and forefinger. More drops fall, soaking her shirt and pattering on her hat. It’s really coming down now. She brings the photo closer to her face. Staring back at her from inside the thin foil frame is her sister’s smiling face. The shock of recognition freezes Sam in place, her mind reeling. The rain, though only in her imagination, falls harder, soaking through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. The room seems to darken, the walls closing in as the weight of the discovery presses down on her.
Sam’s grip tightens around the Polaroid, her thumb tracing the edge of the image, as if trying to hold onto her sister, to pull her back from whatever abyss she had been lost to. Grief surges through her, but it’s quickly followed by a burning anger—a raw, unyielding fury that ignites every nerve in her body. This is the proof she’s been waiting for, the evidence that ties her sister’s death to something far bigger, far more sinister than anyone had ever imagined.
Her breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts as she forces herself to look away from the photo and back at the room around her. The maps, the journals, the mural—everything takes on a new, horrifying significance. This isn’t just a hideout for a drunk; it’s the lair of something monstrous, something that’s been hiding in plain sight, feeding off the forgotten, the discarded, the “less human.”
Sam knows she needs to move, to get out of there, to call for backup, but her legs feel like lead. The rain in her mind keeps pouring, threatening to drown her in her own despair. She can barely hear the faint sound of Bandy’s voice calling out to her from the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the distance. But she can’t respond; she’s rooted to the spot, clutching the Polaroid as if it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.
Finally, with an effort that feels like it might tear her apart, Sam stuffs the photo into her pocket and turns toward the stairs. Her hands are shaking, her heart pounding in her chest as she forces herself to take one step, then another. She’s not sure how she’s going to explain what she’s found, how she’s going to get through the next few minutes, let alone the next few days. But one thing is clear: this fight isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
As she emerges from the dark, suffocating confines of the shelter and into the blinding sunlight, she knows that whatever comes next, she’ll face it head-on. For her sister, and for every other woman who was deemed "less human" by a world that never cared enough to protect them.
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REFER 10 FRIENDS: Score 6 months free, along with a signed, mailed copy of The Devil’s Road pilot screenplay—your own piece of the story, right in your hands.With Halloween just around the corner, I couldn’t think of a better time to bring you, my Faithful Rambler, to the end of Part 1 of The Devil’s Road. Now six chapters in, I want to offer a refresher for any New Witnesses to the trail of bloodshed left behind by our enigmatic Driver. His identity remains a mystery—for now—but Part 2 may finally bring the truth to light.