**You’ll Regret This**
I was driving home in the company car when a truck suddenly swerved into my lane. I slammed the brakes, heart pounding, tires screeching. The truck missed my side by inches. As it roared past, the driver leaned out of the window, face twisted with anger, and shouted:
**“You’ll regret this!”**
I sat there gripping the wheel, trying to steady my breath. I hadn’t done anything wrong—I was in my lane, going the speed limit. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe it was nothing.
Still, the threat lingered in my mind the whole night.
—
The next morning at work, my boss called me into his office before I even had a chance to put my bag down.
“I heard about your… almost accident,” he said.
My stomach tightened. *How?* The company car wasn’t tracked as far as I knew. There were no cameras in it. I hadn’t told anyone.
“Uh… who told you?” I asked.
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a strange look.
“The truck driver.”
I blinked. “What?”
He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Look, I didn’t want you to find out this way. The man who almost hit you—he’s my brother-in-law. And he called me last night yelling that one of my employees ran him off the road.”
“That’s not what happened,” I said immediately. “He swerved into *my* lane. He threatened me.”
My boss shook his head. “He said you brake-checked him. He was furious.”
I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “Why would I do that?”
“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m trying to figure out what’s really going on.”
—
Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. My boss’s assistant poked her head in.
“Sir… there’s a man here asking for your employee. He says it’s urgent.”
My heart dropped.
The boss and I exchanged a look. He stood, motioning for me to follow.
We walked out to the lobby.
And there he was.
The truck driver.
Still wearing the same dirty flannel shirt. Same furious glare. But now he had something folded in his hand—a photo.
He walked up to us and held it out.
“This,” he said, “was on the windshield of my truck this morning.”
I took the photo.
It was of me.
Standing in the parking lot of my apartment the night before. Taken from across the street.
Chills ran down my spine.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” he growled, “but I’m not going down for this.”
“I didn’t put this on your truck!” I snapped. “Someone else is—”
Then something hit me.
The angle of the photo.
It was taken from the bushes across from my building. The maintenance shed.
But only one person had access to that area.
My landlord.
My landlord, who last week told me someone had been asking questions about which car I drove.
My landlord… who was dating my boss’s sister.
The truck driver’s wife.
My boss’s eyes widened as the realization hit him too.
“Someone,” I whispered, “is trying to make us all turn on each other.”
And we were about to find out why.
