Wherever She Goes(38)

I do not want an alarm. But the alternative is to go back through the club, while every employee is looking for a dark-haired woman in a bright blue dress.

I remember the conversation between Zima’s employee/friend and the head of security. If the cameras aren’t operating yet, and the dead bolt isn’t on the office door, that suggests the security team wasn’t fully prepared for tonight’s opening. Is it possible, then, that this door isn’t armed?

Even if an alarm does sound, I can run. It’s not like I have to worry about security cameras.

I tug off my heels. Then I press down on the bar handle and carefully push the door . . .

It doesn’t budge. I depress the handle harder. Still nothing.

They’ve locked the damn emergency exit.

Shoes slap the concrete. I duck into a hiding spot. A guy hurries past. Once he’s gone, I make my way toward the club. The entrance to the dance floor is just up ahead. I’ll cut a beeline through it to the exit, sticking to groups of people and avoiding that box where Zima sits. I’ll just—

There’s a security guard outside the women’s restroom. He’s stationed there, and he’s watching every woman who walks in.

I dart back to my last hiding spot and duck in. As I do, I hear footfalls. It’s the employee who passed me earlier. He’s returning with a crate of bottles.

Once he passes, I retrace his steps to the basement door. It’s unlocked. I open it and use my phone flashlight to guide me down the dark steps. At the bottom, I see closed doors. The ones at the end have key locks. At this end are two doors with regular knobs marked with makeshift stick figures of a man and a woman. I push open the door with the skirted figure and find the women’s staff room.

I quickly open lockers. Most have jeans or sweats. A couple, though, contain dresses. I check tags. There’s a black one in my size. I quickly change and wad up the blue dress into my purse. Then I take out a hundred bucks and slide it into the employee’s bag.

Out the staff room. Listen for footsteps. Scamper up the stairs. Down the hall and . . .

I still need to pass that security guard, who’ll notice I’ve come from the wrong direction.

I’m tucked into a side hall, considering my options, when I hear him talking. I poke my head out to see a dark-haired girl in a blue dress.

He’s turned away, talking to her. I slip off my heels again and creep into the restroom behind his back. A moment later, as I’m putting my shoes on, the girl comes in. The guard must have dismissed her, realizing her dress isn’t bright blue and she’s barely drinking age.

I walk right past him. I make my way through the club. I’m trying not to rush—I don’t want to call attention to myself. I’m weaving toward the exit when I catch a glimpse of what looks like a familiar face. A face that stops me short.

It’s Laila Jackson.

No, that isn’t possible. I’m seeing another thirty-year-old, short-haired Black woman and making a horribly stereotyped mistake. Except I’m not. At my apartment, she was dressed in skinny jeans, high-heeled boots, and a cropped leather jacket. This woman is wearing skinny jeans, high-heeled boots, and a cropped leather jacket.

Laila Jackson followed me to the club.

What is wrong with this woman? What have I done to piss her off so much that she’s trailing me in her off time?

No, I shouldn’t think of it that way. Not “What have I done to this woman?” but “What have I done to this police officer?” I haven’t personally pissed her off. This is business.

Something is up here. There’s no way she’s tracked me to a club to warn me, yet again, to back off.

I feel the weight of my cell phone in my purse. The cell phone with that recording, proving Kim had a child. Whatever Jackson’s beef, I could end it here by triumphantly presenting her with proof that Aubrey Finch is not a crazed attention-seeker.

But do I trust her?

No. Her behavior is suspicious, and I must be extra cautious here. A child’s life is at stake.

I’m turning toward the exit when Jackson’s head swivels my way. She spots me. I pick up speed, weaving through the few people between me and the exit. I hurry outside, past the bouncers, and the one from earlier thankfully doesn’t notice me in the black dress.

I move at a fast walk to the alley beside the club. Then I dart in, tug off my heels, and break into a run.

“Aubrey!” Jackson’s voice shouts behind me.

I keep going. There are trash bins ahead, and I race around them like an obstacle course. A wooden fence blocks the alley. I grab the top and swing my legs up, ignoring the pain stabbing through my shoulder. I crouch on top to get a quick look at where I’ll be jumping down. Onto trash bins. Great.

“Aubrey Finch!”

I grip the edge, ready to leap, hoping I can clear the bins—

“Aubrey Stapleton!”

I stop.

Run, just run.

That’s what I want to do. What my gut screams for me to do. But my head knows better. My head analyzes the scenario and calculates possible outcomes in an eyeblink.

The chance that I can swing down, escape, and then pretend it was never me . . . and Jackson will buy it? Next to zero.

The chance that I’ll only make things worse by running? Next to perfect.

I turn. Jackson walks toward me. She says nothing until she’s right below. Then she looks up at me, crouched on the fence, and she shakes her head.