There’s a 25 percent chance we could have parked on the same level, since the lot only has four. Still, I shift my body so I can see him in my peripheral vision. He’s wearing a suit and tie with an overcoat, but he doesn’t carry a briefcase.
Something is off; he’s staring at me now.
It all happens so quickly that before I can act, the doors close, sealing the two of us together. I mentally kick myself: Like many women, I’ve placed my desire to be polite ahead of my need to protect myself. I should simply have stepped out of the elevator and waited for the next one.
My body prepares for a threat. I edge forward until my hand is by the control panel. If he tries anything, instead of pressing EMERGENCY STOP, which would trap me, I plan to push the buttons for every single floor, as well as the one labeled EMERGENCY CALL.
We reach P3 and the doors slide open. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding.
The man waits to exit until I step out. Many guys do this; it’s considered gentlemanly. Still, I don’t like having him behind me again.
It’s a bright day outside, but the underground lot is dim and shadowy. The parking attendant who’d handed me my ticket on the way in is several stories above us, well out of earshot.
I walk toward my BMW, adrenaline thrumming through my body. In the distance I can see there aren’t any other vehicles parked near mine, so the man should be heading in a different direction. But unless I turn around, it’s impossible to tell. The tapping of my heels on the cement is amplified in the subterranean lot, and I can’t hear any other noises. Right before I reach my car, I steal a look behind me and my pulse explodes.
He’s just a few feet away. He has been keeping pace with me this whole time.
That crisp, expensive-looking suit and his blank gaze—they unnerve me. This man is targeting me; I’m done being polite.
I whip around to face him. “Can I help you?” I ask, aiming for the fiercest tone I can muster.
His voice is so low I can barely make out his words: “Just give us the name.”
He’s from Acelia. They still think I might give Finley up. But I never will. I fumble in my purse for my fob, chastising myself for not having it out earlier, keeping my eyes glued on the man. He could be carrying a gun, its shape concealed by his overcoat.
“You volunteered information. Who told you?”
My hand gropes inside my purse again, feeling my wallet and makeup bag and phone—and, finally, the hard metal edge of the can of Mace attached to my key chain.
“It can be very simple, or you can make it complicated.”
Adrenaline floods my limbs. If he is going to come after me, he’ll do it now. I have a plan for that, too—I’ll blast him in the face with Mace, then hit the alarm button on my fob. I’ll go down fighting; there’s no way I’ll let him abduct me from my own car.
I suck in a shallow breath, my body tense.
He remains immobile. “We won’t stop. And it can get much worse.”
I back up until I feel the edge of my fender, then in one furious, fluid motion, I unlock the driver’s-side door, slide inside, and instantly lock it again.
He stares at me through my window, still expressionless. But he hasn’t made a move toward me.
I reverse out of the parking space, nearing sideswiping him, then speed up the circular ramps. When I reach the attendant, I’m about to tell him about the strange man. But what crime can I report the guy for? Getting on an elevator with me and riding it to the same level?
It takes a while for my body to unclench. The thought of going home and curling up with Romeo is tempting, but I’ve got a full day, and I’m not going to let Acelia steal it from me.
As I wind my way through the streets of D.C., heading toward Maryland and the café I want to scope out before Marissa’s meeting with her ex-lover, a thought strikes me.
How did that man know where to find me today?
Is there a tracker on my car? Could they have hacked my computer? A wave of dizziness engulfs me and I pull over to the side of the road.
I flick on my hazard lights and crack my windows to let in the cold, bracing air. It’s after noon and I haven’t eaten anything today or even had coffee—standard procedure before an annual physical—which is making it difficult to think clearly.
Perhaps they simply followed me here, I think.
It takes me a moment to come up with another possibility.
The words Dr. Hernandez and 10 a.m. were in the appointment book I keep on my desk, the book with the striped ribbon.
The one I’m now certain Skip checked out when he came to my place on Friday night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MARISSA
MARISSA WATCHES THE SPINNING, dipping baseball arc into center field, then bounce roughly against the grass.
She breathes a sigh of relief as Bennett scoops it up. It’s the bottom of the second inning, but neither team has yet scored, and she got here in time to see Bennett make a good play. Matthew hasn’t replied to her text, Marissa had to shut down Coco for the afternoon, and she has no idea what to do about Polly, but at least this one thing is right in her world.
She continues walking toward the bleachers, waving at a cluster of parents, as she watches her son twist and hurl the ball to second base, his aim straight and true.
Her heart gives a little leap. Bennett is really improving in baseball.
“Good job!” she calls, starting to applaud.
Then she stops.
The thin, light-haired boy who made the play isn’t her son.
Maybe Coach Santo put Bennett in a different position, she thinks. Marissa missed last week’s game, but Bennett told her he’d played well. She peers into the distance, trying to make out each player’s face. It’s hard to tell who’s beneath the identical red baseball caps, but she finally spots Bennett. He’s hunched on the dugout bench next to a boy with a cast on his arm.
“Marissa!”
She lifts her head at the sound of her name. It takes a moment for her to place the mom who waves her over. It’s Carrie, whose son Lance plays first base and opts to wear his older sister’s hand-me-down pink cleats, a detail that endears him to Marissa.
“Come, sit. Ooh, I love your jacket.” Carrie gives Marissa a quick, hard hug.
Her warmth takes Marissa by surprise; Marissa unexpectedly feels on the verge of tears and is grateful for her sunglasses. Marissa hasn’t made any close friends at the school, but she has always had the impression that Carrie is funny and kind. Marissa has a faint recollection of Carrie’s once suggesting they grab lunch. Marissa never followed up on it, though. It feels like another in a long list of her mistakes.
“It’s good to see you,” Marissa says, squeezing into the crowded row.
Carrie has a big snack bag between her feet, with sliced oranges in a giant Ziploc and individual packets of trail mix studded with pretzels, raisins, and bright M&M’s. Marissa’s stomach growls and she realizes she has barely eaten today.
“Is Bennett okay?” Carrie asks.
A player from the opposing team hits a pop fly, and the pitcher makes a diving catch, ending the inning. The parents applaud—one man who, Marissa surmises, is the pitcher’s father stomps his feet against the bleachers—and the players run in to end the inning.
“I thought so,” Marissa tells Carrie. “Maybe I should go check.”