“Okay,” I finally say. “Thank you for the drink.”
He cocks his head to the side. “You going to be all right? You want me to walk you to your car?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
I glance out into the bar’s parking lot. My car is parked right under a street lamp, only a stone’s throw away. I watch Henry Callahan getting into his own car—a small blue Dodge with a large dent in the back fender. My shoulders relax as I watch him drive away.
The creeping sensation in the back of my neck is gone, but it’s replaced with a slightly sick feeling. I do my best to push it away. I’m not worried about Henry Callahan. After the things I’ve seen in my life, there isn’t much that can shake me.
But I still hang around the bar for another few minutes, to make sure he’s gone.
Chapter 2
I drive a dark green Toyota Camry. It’s a fine, sensible car in a sensible color without a nick or a dent on it. My partner at work, Dr. Philip Corey, purchased a red Tesla last year. When I nicknamed it his “midlife crisis car,” Philip just winked at me. He loves to take that Tesla on the freeway and let ‘er rip. When you get into a car with Philip, you’re taking your life into your hands.
I’m not having a midlife crisis. I just needed a safe vehicle to get from point A to point B with as little fanfare as possible.
The parking lot of Christopher’s is nearly silent as I slide into the driver’s seat of my Camry. I start the engine and classical music fills the car. Chopin’sNocturne in C. I used to play the piano, and I learned this piece for a concert in high school. That feels like an eternity ago. I haven’t touched piano keys in at least a decade.
I get back on the road. It’s quiet like it always is on weeknights. I ease my foot onto the gas, taking the back roads like I usually do to get home.
After about two minutes of driving, I notice the pair of headlights behind me.
It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. So there’s a car driving behind me. So what? But at the same time, I’m usually the only one driving on these back roads at this hour. Usually, it’s just me and the stars. And maybe the moon, depending on the time of the month.
Also, the car is following me very closely. I’m going at least ten miles above the speed limit for this small road, and the headlights are probably less than two car lengths behind me. If I stopped short, they would almost certainly rear-end me.
I suspect this car might be intentionally following me. But there’s only one way to know for sure.
I approach a fork in the road. I signal left. As I come to the fork, I start to veer left. But at the last second, I swerve right.
I have my eyes pinned on the rearview mirror the entire time. I watch the headlights behind me as they start to move left, then start to veer to the left of the fork as I sail to the right. And then, the car skids to a halt. The car backs up, then turns right at the fork.
I inhale sharply, my hands squeezing the steering wheel. The other car is definitely following me. That bastard is following me.
As I contemplate my next move, a thought flits through my head. One that I have not infrequently when I’m in difficult situations:
What would my father do?
I always have that thought, as much as I try not to. Idon’t want to know what my father would do. And I certainly don’t want to do the same thing he would do. After all, he’s the one spending eighteen life sentences in prison right now. Not exactly something I want to strive for.
I have my phone in my pocket, hooked up to my Bluetooth. I could call the police. I could tell them my location and that there’s a car following me. But I don’t do that either.
At the next corner, I usually turn right to go home. But instead, I turn left. The car behind me turns with me. The headlights flood my car as the other vehicle creeps closer to mine. They’re not even trying to hide the fact that they’re following me. Two car-lengths have now become one car-length. They’re riding my rear bumper.
Then I see my destination up ahead. The local police department.
I pull into the parking lot at the police department. I keep my eyes on the rearview mirror, waiting to see if the driver will have the gall to follow me into the police station parking lot. But instead, the headlights disappear from my rearview mirror, just as I suspected they would. As I pull into a parking spot, I see the car that had been following me drive past.
It’s a blue Dodge with a dent in the rear fender.
I sit in the parking lot of the police department for the next ten minutes, watching the road, making sure the car that had been following me is long gone. This is not my favorite place to be. I remember the first time I ever visited the police department. I was ten years old. My father hadjust been arrested. The police had so many questions for me.
Nora, how long did your father keep a workshop in the basement?
Nora, did your mother ever go down there?
Nora, are there any other secret hiding places in your house?
