Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(31)

A slightly blurry hour later Lawrence started herding us to the door for the concert. “We’ll get a cab. We’re going to miss the opening act as it is,” he said. “But I’m afraid,” he added, “that driving would be less than responsible.”

“Let’s walk, honey,” Katherine said, tugging his arm. “It’s barely two miles and it’s nice out. I could use the fresh air.”

They looked back at us. I shrugged. “Fine by me.”

We made our way along the curve of Lake Merritt, heading toward downtown Oakland. The night air was cool and the street quiet. Only the occasional car. A sliver of moon. Ethan and Lawrence walked ahead, talking excitedly about the upcoming Cal-Cardinal game. As we left their neighborhood, the streets became grittier, the streetlights scarcer. Katherine was talking. “Lawrence and I think it’s wonderful that Ethan met you. We really do.”

“Thanks,” I said. This was the heart-to-heart part of the double date, I supposed. Girl talk. The part where the two men chatted sports and the two women confided over whatever. But I was in a good mood. The drinks and pot buzzing in my head.

“We can see that you have a sense of culture. It’s so good for him. We’ve been doing our best to move him along in that respect. To build things up.”

I gave her a look. “He’s not a Habitat for Humanity project.”

She took my arm, squeezed it affectionately. “No, no. Of course not.” Her voice lowered confidentially. “I just mean—I’m not sure if you know, but Ethan doesn’t come from a background that provided him with a lot, in that respect. He’s been having to learn all on his own. He’s come a long way. I like to think we’ve helped. I mean that as a true friend of his. You understand, Nikki.”

I did understand. Loud and clear. “Sure. A modern-day Jude the Obscure, stonemason to scholar.” There were a few other things I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I’d learned that usually it was talk that landed people in trouble.

A defensive look crossed Katherine’s face as she started to reply, but she tripped on something, a pothole or gap in the paving. I caught her arm and steadied her. “They need to fix these streetlamps,” she said, our exchange forgotten. “Someone will break their neck out here. This city is getting better, but still.”

I could see the lights and buildings of downtown Oakland in the distance. Probably less than a mile away. I heard Lawrence’s raised voice from up ahead. “What the hell is this?” His voice was no longer jocular. Katherine caught the change in his tone, too. “What’s going on, honey?” she called, concern in her voice. Up ahead Lawrence and Ethan had stopped. I could see their still shapes. Katherine quickened her pace into an anxious half-jog. “Is everything okay, honey?” she asked again, her voice louder.

I kept pace with her. But cautiously. I’d gotten close enough to see the shapes of other people. In front of us. Blocking the way.

“What’s happening?” Katherine said. “Is everything okay?”

I heard Lawrence’s voice. Thin and frightened. All the confidence stripped away like bark off a tree. “We’re being robbed.”

We reached Ethan and Lawrence and I took another look. There were three of them, big guys. The city had gotten a lot safer since the ’60s and ’70s. Tech money and gentrification paid for a lot of extra law enforcement. The homicide rate had plummeted. But still far from perfect. Over three thousand robberies a year in a city of less than half a million. Almost ten a day, one every other hour. Like clockwork. Maybe we happened to be the first people these three had ever tried to rob. Maybe they were doing it on a drunken dare, some spontaneous decision. Or, maybe, they’d done a hundred of these, and people like our little group were their bread and butter.

I stood next to Ethan, watching the three men and wishing I hadn’t touched the pot or the last bottle of wine. Two immediate questions. How many? And what weapons? I had my first answer. Three of them. No one hiding off to the sides. The lead guy was almost as tall as Lawrence, and heavier. He wore an Oakland A’s baseball hat and work boots and held something in his hand.

A knife.

It was a hunting knife. The lower half of the blade serrated. The point wickedly sharp. A six-inch blade gleaming coldly. The kind of knife someone would use to gut and skin a deer. The kind of knife that could do all kinds of awful and permanent things to a human body in less time than it would take to lace up a pair of shoes.

When it came to violent crime, the longer it went on the likelier that something would go wrong. Robbers tended to show whatever weapons they had in the interests of immediate intimidation. The whole shock-and-awe thing. A guy with a bat would wave it. A guy with a knife would brandish it. A guy with a gun would pull it. There were plenty of normal, regular people who might fight back against an unarmed robber. Especially on a weekend night, when they’d been drinking themselves into false confidence. No one wanted to give up their possessions. But the number of people who would risk fighting back against an armed assailant, risk being stabbed or shot for a few bucks—that was a much smaller number.

So maybe no guns. Probably no guns. But no way to tell for sure. Not yet.

Ethan held my hand. He was shaking. I could feel it. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “They won’t hurt you, Nikki. We’re going to be okay.”