And Now She's Gone(79)
She was burning on the inside, and that fire was creeping up her chest and down her thighs. She’d burn until the fire consumed her, and then the car would catch and she’d blow up and all of her problems would finally be solved.
Maybe.
See you soon.
But not in this traffic. It was as though every car that had a transmission and an AM-FM radio needed to take a Sunday drive on a Wednesday. Not an inch of free space anywhere. Highways were crammed like a summer day at Disneyland.
Freaking Hank.
He’d showed up unannounced at her apartment building. Was this a normal thing? Men just … showing up? She no longer had a true reference point for proper behavior, nor did she read romance novels or watch rom-coms. Her last “normal” relationship had sent her careening into California. This kind of “normalcy”? She didn’t like this kind, and she’d let Hank know that, especially since he hadn’t bothered to call or text her since … since … Friday morning?
And now, she was stuck on the 10 freeway connector to the 110 North—an Easter-egg-hidden level of hell. Nighttime had clocked in for work, but the sun still gave off enough light to make her squint. Something about this traffic jam was different, and whatever it was scraped the back of Gray’s neck.
Her phone buzzed. An alert from ORO.
Gray’s breath left her, and her gaze zipped from car to car.
Bored-looking faces. Mouths moving to Adele or Smokey Robinson or Maroon 5. Glazed eyes, some hidden by Oakleys or Ray-Bans.
She tapped the banner to open the alert, but her screen froze and went black.
“You’re crashing now?” she shouted.
Gray switched lanes to exit. That scraping itchiness still rode her neck, and she looked again in the rearview and side mirrors—behind her, four other cars had also switched lanes.
Because it’s a freeway, dummy. And the Seventh Street off-ramp was a major exit.
No one in those cars behind her looked familiar or menacing, and yet …
And yet … Where is he? Where is Sean? Greater Los Angeles meant he could be way south in Watts or way north in Highland Park.
She pushed those buttons that needed pushing to restart her phone. That kick of panic was not irrational; it was instinct. Fight or flight. She’d heeded its scratchy-itchiness before, and it wouldn’t make sense to ignore it now.
The phone blinked back to life.
She tapped the ORO icon, but needed to log in again.
No time.
Gray zipped down the off-ramp and made a quick left onto Enid Place. A tidy side street, Enid’s only purpose was to send drivers to the mall’s parking garage. Gray didn’t go that far; she pulled over to the curb and idled in front of a fire hydrant.
The green minivan that had driven behind her slowly rolled past Enid Place. That car was followed by a PT Cruiser, and its driver kept his head straight. A black Mustang slowed in the intersection. The male driver—she couldn’t tell if he was white, Latino, or lighter-skinned black—looked to his left, down Enid Place, slowing some as the Beetle behind him tooted its horn and forced him to go forward.
Mustang Man was following her.
Why? Who is he? What does he want? Is he one of Sean’s boys?
That scratching against her skin had turned into clawing. But she couldn’t hear her heartbeat, or the shallow breaths pushed out of her mouth. Hollow, that’s how she felt. Floaty and dead—numb. And she stared out the windshield, not seeing cars or pigeons or anything, not anymore. Not caring that Nick hadn’t found the weakness in his company’s armor.
Give up.
Weary. Bone tired. In pain—not even sharp pain, but vague, strange, sad pain.
She couldn’t even hide while driving a black SUV in a city filled with black SUVs.
Not good.
Unfair. This was all unfair.
What had she done in this life or a past one to deserve any of this?
She wanted to mash the gas pedal and escape through the mall. Race past the Mendocino Farms and the Yara boutique.
And then what?
Why fight anything?
Surrender, Dorothy.
Maybe she would surrender. And then it would be over, she’d be dead, and she’d come back a third time. Maybe as a duchess or a farmer. A housewife in Kentucky with only laundry and pumpkin muffins to fret over. Maybe her husband would beat her and this time she’d simply accept it and stay until he ended her and she came back a fourth time. And maybe that time— Her phone buzzed with a picture of her taken minutes ago. She’d been driving on the 10 freeway. The photographer had been in a car to her left, driving beside her, knowing that she was behind the wheel of the truck instead of the Camry. This was … nuts. This was— The phone buzzed again.
I told U 2 b careful
43
Gray made a right onto Figueroa, not caring if Mustang Man spotted her again. As she stopped to make a left onto Third Street, she saw Hank. He stood near her apartment building’s sign, wearing jeans and an untucked button-down shirt. A patient man, he had waited for her for over an hour. Four days ago, that simple act—waiting—would have sent Gray’s heart skipping like the slickest stone across her chest.
Today, though …
She pulled into her building’s dark parking garage.
No other car—including black Mustangs—rolled in behind her.
Gray climbed out of the Yukon, and the giant parking lot tightened around her. She hugged bags of Hawaiian souvenirs and biscuits to her chest, and on numb legs, she shuffled outside and to the illuminated Beaudry Towers sign.