Like a Sister(72)

Shitnuts.

I forced myself to push away the panic coming up my throat and instead focused on what I could do. What I could control. I remembered I needed to pick up Desiree’s stuff from the police precinct.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. I jumped out of bed, putting on my Rosie the Riveter shirt and black jeans again because they were the closest thing to me that didn’t need ironing. Then I bypassed the shower to brush my teeth and throw a lightweight beanie over the fuzz showing on my braids. My jeans felt looser than they had two days ago. I reasoned it was because I’d stretched them out.

Aunt E had let herself in again. She’d left a foil-wrapped plate on my kitchen counter. As soon as I unwrapped it, I knew she felt bad for trying to make me feel bad about kicking Erin out. It was lasagna. Another of my favorites that she hated making. I covered it back up. I’d go apologize myself—after I got Desiree’s things.

I kept the bikes in the hallway on the first floor, past Aunt E’s door and on the way to the basement. But I ignored my Schwinn, doubting a bike would fit in the back of Desiree’s Tesla. I’d have to walk it. I’d never been to the 44th Precinct before. Luckily, Google Maps informed me it’d take just seven minutes.

When I got outside, Google told me to head straight, and I followed as if I’d heard it say Simon Says. I thought about what Erin had told me as soon as I hit the pavement, still not sure if I could believe her. There was no proof of an argument between Zarah and Desiree. Desiree treated her cell like her virtual office, and this wasn’t 2001. The video wouldn’t be on some mysterious jump drive or backup hard drive. It’d be on that phone. And it wasn’t.

I got to a dead end. A literal one. The mechanical voice told me to go right and then left.

When Erin had realized the jig was up, it’d taken her a nanosecond to shift the blame to Zarah. Erin knew what I wanted: to find the person responsible for Desiree’s death. I just wasn’t sure of her endgame. She had sounded so sure that Desiree’s phone would implicate Zarah. But she had to know it wouldn’t. Was she willing to throw an innocent person under the bus? Did she think I was so desperate to pin the tail on Desiree’s killer I’d rush to the police station?

I didn’t realize I’d screwed up until the white van stopped fifty feet in front of me. I’d been so distracted I hadn’t even noticed it passing by.

Suddenly I had no idea where I was. The street was deserted, just one oversize beige brick building to my right. The other side was lined with a fence protecting an abandoned lot. The only cars were on the cross street. It felt like they were miles away.

I instinctively reached for my pepper spray in my back pocket, then realized I’d left it at home along with my common sense. I knew better than to go down a street not teeming with people.

I envisioned the worst-case scenario. A man jumping out of the van. Dragging me kicking and screaming while his co-conspirator waited to drive off. The vision stopped there but only because it was always where the TV shows and movies cut to black. I braced myself, ready. But what happened next felt much, much worse.

Nothing.

The van just idled, the car engine a gentle hum. No one got out.

I stopped, not sure what to do. The police station wasn’t within yelling distance, but it was close. Just not close enough. I could keep going, hoping I could run past the van to the precinct a mere tenth of a mile away. Or I could turn, go back the way I’d foolishly come. It was farther, but at least they’d have to give chase.

The van was white. New York plates. I stared at the Ford logo on the back as I made my decision. I’d go back. Make them work for it. But first, I’d take a pic. My hands shook as I struggled to open the camera app.

“Hey!”

Startled, I dropped my cell. The voice was male and didn’t indicate friend or foe. I needed to call 911. I bent down to pick up my phone.

“Where you think you’re going, girl?”

There was an accent, but I couldn’t tell from where. A shadow joined the voice. It got bigger and bigger as I finally grabbed my cell, my mind no longer on calling for help and instead on just getting the hell out of there. I instinctively headed into the street, my feet moving at what would be 6.7 on a treadmill. It was what I did whenever I had to walk alone at night. The open road safer than any sidewalk. It was easier to see car headlights than people lurking in shadows.

I was almost midway onto the black pavement when the voice spoke again. “Lena! Aren’t you heading to the precinct? You’re going the wrong way.”

Stuart.

I stopped. Fifty feet ahead, the van still lingered, but I felt better. Safer. I tore my eyes away to look at Stuart, smiling at me. My fear must’ve shown because he stopped a few feet away. “I scared you. It was my horrible fake accent, wasn’t it?”

I shook my head but couldn’t get words out. Not yet. Noticing, he got serious. “No, I did. Crap. I’m sorry. I keep screwing up. Didn’t think of the optics. I was just so happy to see you. But you’re alone. And I ran up on you.”

“No, it wasn’t you,” I lied as I nodded in the direction of the van that still hadn’t moved.

Stuart glanced at it before turning back to me. “Oh, the kidnap van.” He gently took my shoulder, led me back toward the sidewalk. His hand felt warm, safe. “I can see why that would freak you out. There’s probably some guy in there wanting you to put the lotion in the basket.”