An Anonymous Girl(34)

The driver simply nods and pulls away, heading west.

I pull my seat belt across my body and click it into place.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask, trying to affect a casual tone.

All I can see are his brown eyes and heavy brows in the rearview mirror. “You don’t know?”

He doesn’t say it like a question, though. It’s almost a statement.

As I watch the city begin to whirl by through the tinted back window, I suddenly realize how truly isolated I am. And how powerless.

I backpedal: “Oh, my friend arranged this ride for me,” I say. “I’m meeting her. . . .”

My voice trails off. I slide my hand beneath the seat belt strap that feels too tight against my chest. There’s no give in it.

The driver doesn’t reply.

My heartbeat quickens. Why is he acting so strangely?

He makes a right turn and we begin to head uptown.

“Are we stopping at Sixty-second Street?” I ask. Perhaps Dr. Shields wants to meet me at her office. But then why all the specifics about how to dress?

The driver’s gaze remains fixed straight ahead.

The realization slams into me: I’m trapped alone with a strange man. He could be taking me anywhere.

I’ve hailed countless cabs and ordered numerous Vias and Ubers. I’ve never felt unsafe before.

My eyes dart again to the windows in the back row of his car, my row. Nobody can see in.

I instinctively check the locks. I can’t tell if they are engaged. There isn’t a lot of traffic, so we’re moving relatively quickly. We’re bound to hit a traffic light. Should I try to open the door and jump out?

I slowly reach for the button on my seat belt and press it, wincing when my thumb gets pinched between the metal. I ease it off my shoulder carefully, so it doesn’t snap back into the holder.

How do I even know he’s an Uber driver? It’s probably not all that hard to get one of those U stickers. Or he could have borrowed the car.

I look at him more carefully. He’s a large man with a thick neck and beefy arms; his hands gripping the steering wheel are about twice the size of mine.

I’m fumbling for the button to roll down the window when the driver says, “Yeah, okay.”

I seek out his eyes in the rearview mirror, but they are fixed on the road.

Then I hear the slightly tinny, distinct sound of another male voice.

The tightness in my chest releases as I realize the driver didn’t respond to my questions because he’s on a phone call. He’s not being deliberately evasive, he simply didn’t hear me.

I take a deep breath and sink back into the seat.

I’m being silly, I tell myself. We’re traversing up Third Avenue, surrounded by cars and pedestrians.

Still, it takes a full minute for me to feel steadier.

I lean forward and repeat my query a third time, my voice louder.

He glances back over his shoulder, then says something that sounds like “Madison and Seventy-sixth.”

Between the radio and the noise of the engine, though, I’m not sure, and the driver has resumed his phone conversation.

I pull out my phone and google the location. A bunch of businesses show up—the Sussex hotel, Vince and Rebecca Taylor clothing boutiques, a few residential apartments, and an Asian fusion restaurant.

Okay, I think. All innocuous places. Which one is my destination?

The restaurant seems the most likely.

I reassure myself that Dr. Shields is probably seated there already, waiting for me. Perhaps she wants to give me more instructions about the real-life test.

Still, I can’t help but wonder why she needs to see me outside the office for that. Maybe there’s another reason.

For a brief moment, I imagine we’re two friends, or maybe a younger sister going to meet her older, more sophisticated one, to share a seaweed salad and some sashimi. Over a carafe of warm sake, we’d share confidences, too. This time, though, I would ask her all the questions that have been bubbling up in my mind.

In the side mirror, I see the bright headlights of an approaching car. At almost the same instant, my driver begins to swerve into that lane.

A horn blares and the Hyundai jerks back, brakes squealing. I’m flung against the door, then forward. My hands shoot out and I brace myself against the back of the passenger seat.

“Asshole!” my driver yells, even though the near-collision was his fault. He was so busy on his phone call, he didn’t check his blind spot.

For the rest of the ride, I keep watch out my side window. I’m so busy looking out for pedestrians and other vehicles that it takes me a few seconds to notice that the Uber has pulled up behind a black Town Car. We’re directly in front of the Sussex hotel.

“Here?” I ask the driver, pointing to the entrance.

He nods.

I step out onto the sidewalk and gaze up and down the block, unsure of what to do next. Am I supposed to wait inside the lobby?

I turn back to look at the Uber, but it is already gone.

A group of people pass by and one of the men bumps against my arm. I’m so startled I almost drop my phone.

“Sorry!” the man calls.

I look around for Dr. Shields, but the only faces on the street are unfamiliar.

I am on one of the safest blocks in all of Manhattan, so why do I feel so uneasy?

A few seconds later, another text arrives: Go directly to the bar on the lobby level. You’ll see a group of men at a large circular table about halfway back. Choose a seat at the bar close to them.