Trucker Wife's Midnight Stalker - Chapter 5: Chapter 5

I handed Vincent some water. He groaned, rubbing his temples—clearly paying the price for last night's drinking.
Suddenly, he jerked upright. His gaze darted to the truck window, zeroing in on the fuel tank. Then he spun back, fingers skimming the dashboard controls.
A relieved sigh escaped him when he spotted the tiny glowing light.
"Fuel gauge is fine. Guess we lucked out—no fuel bandits hit us."
My stomach dropped.
He didn't know why our tank was still full.
The reason was simple: I was the target. I'd nearly been—
My face must've twisted, because Vincent frowned. "Bianca? You okay?" His hand brushed my forehead, warm with concern.
It made me feel worse.
But he could never know.
"Just… too much to drink," I mumbled.
"Rest up, then. I'll scout outside." He tucked the blanket around me like I was something fragile before stepping out.
When he returned, confusion pinched his brow. "Talked to a few drivers. Some got robbed last night—fuel siphoned clean. But ours?" He shot me a lingering look. "Untouched."
My pulse hammered, but I kept my voice steady.
After a beat, he suddenly laughed. "Maybe they saw you packing up and bolted." Grinning, he yanked me into a hug, lips grazing mine. Maybe the relief loosened him up—soon, he was dozing against me.
I lay rigid, eyes glued to my silent phone. Exhaustion eventually dragged me under too.
I woke to Vincent in the driver's seat, grinning at his phone like he'd won the lottery. Honestly, I hadn't seen that smile in years.
It carved a hole in my chest.
If he knew the truth, it'd vanish.
He caught me staring. "What?"
I forced a shrug. "You're cheerful."
"Eh, dumb meme." He flicked the screen off and leaned in, voice dropping. "Speaking of… I'm in the mood, Bianca."
Dread coiled in my gut.
His smirk widened. "Don't leave me hanging." His hands were already roaming, eager.
He didn't notice how I flinched.
The touches I used to crave now made my skin crawl. But guilt won—I let him.
Later, another truck rolled in. Pleasantries exchanged, they left.
"Let's go too," I urged.
Vincent pinched my cheek. "You've been… off today." As we drove, he rambled about future plans, his enthusiasm withering when I gave one-word replies.
"Maybe my period's coming," I lied.
He bought it.
By dusk, we parked at another rest stop. Still no calls. My mind raced—how to ditch these rides, contact Zachary, end this.
Then it hit me: Call the cops.
A creep like him? He'd be behind bars in no time.
My heart skipped a beat as realization dawned on me.
Before, Zachary's calls filled me with dread. Now? I was practically counting the minutes until he reached out. Only then could I set up a meeting—and finally call the cops.
But my excitement crashed just as fast when reality hit me like a ton of bricks—I had no proof.
What if I reported him, and he just deleted those disgusting videos? The police wouldn't have anything to go on. Worse, he could flip it around, accuse me of lying, and destroy what was left of my reputation.
I clenched my fists, frustration boiling inside me—until my gaze landed on the truck's instruction manual.
That's when it clicked.
These big rigs weren't just hauling machines—they had surveillance systems. Maybe not as fancy as luxury cars, but enough to catch something.
Hope flared in my chest.
Then, just as quickly, fear slithered in.
If my husband found out I was messing with the truck's footage… game over.
My emotions were a rollercoaster—one second soaring, the next plummeting.
Then, his phone rang.
"Vincent, you close? We're waiting on that delivery."
My husband chuckled. "Almost there. Five minutes, tops."
When he hung up, his expression softened as he turned to me. "Sweetheart, unloading's rough. Stay in the cab, okay?"
Guilt twisted in my gut.
But I steeled myself. Nothing had happened. Not really.
And this call gave me an idea—I could copy the footage, then wipe it. Once Zachary was behind bars, I'd be free.
Fate must've been on my side.
When we pulled up, my husband hopped out to talk to the client.
Then—my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
My stomach dropped.
I knew exactly who it was.
I answered.
Zachary's voice oozed through the line. "Made your decision yet? I've got quite the collection of your… performances. Imagine if that went public. Meet me at Elm Street Park. You've got twenty-four hours."
Click.
He hung up before I could even breathe.
Rage burned through me. My fingers curled into fists.
Twenty-four hours.
I shoved my phone away and scrambled for the truck's manual, hands shaking as I fumbled with the dashboard controls.
But then—another gut punch.
Four cameras, but nothing from before today. The old footage? Gone.
My breath came fast. Panic clawed at my throat.
But I gritted my teeth.
Evidence or not, I wasn't backing down. I'd face him. I'd call the police.
I refused to let him ruin me.
After the delivery, I lied through my teeth. "Mom's in the hospital—I have to go."
Vincent's face twisted with worry. "Should I come with you?"
I shook my head.
He couldn't leave work, so he dropped me at the bus stop, squeezing my hand. "Be safe."
I boarded the shuttle.
Elm Street Park was my stop.