Was it him? Was it Mr. Aggressive?
Not necessarily. There was money here, and a lot of people who drove cars like that.
But if it was . . . she couldn’t outrun him. She had to outsmart him.
Rather than going to her apartment, she drove until she found a parking spot beside the old-fashioned town square. It was crowded here, part of the downtown renaissance. Quaint shops faced out on the park filled with grand live oaks and benches where tourists lolled in the shade. Directly across the way stood an old redbrick courthouse complete with white trim and a cupola. Jacqueline loved the courthouse, liked to imagine what this town, this wine-producing valley had been like a hundred years ago. When she talked about her decision to live in San Michael, she said the courthouse architecture and the styling of the town were the main reasons she’d chosen to stay in San Michael.
But of course, that wasn’t true. The main reason she’d chosen to stay in San Michael was because it was as far away from New York City in culture and distance as she could be and still be in the continental United States.
Now she scanned the park, looking for Mr. Aggressive.
She saw nothing.
Plucking her cell out of her backpack, she called the winery.
Her coworker picked up on the first ring. “Blue Oak Winery, where the hell are you, Jacquie?”
“I didn’t like that guy, and you did, so I left.”
“Like I need you to leave before I have a chance with him?” Michelle was always crabby, and never more so than when she was offended.
“You got a date with him?”
“No. About the time I realized you hadn’t come back from the back room, he put the glass down and walked out.”
No wonder Michelle was offended.
Michelle continued. “All he did was ask questions about you, and he didn’t even finish his tasting. Twenty dollars and he didn’t take his second glass. What a loser.”
And no wonder Jacqueline was uneasy. “Okay. Thank you.” She hung up while Michelle was sputtering.
She got out of the car. Locked the doors. Slung her backpack over her shoulder. And started walking.
In Hills’ sales window, a pair of red heels with diamond buckles caught her attention. She stopped, stared, and wondered if she could ever afford shoes like that again—and at that moment, she caught her first glimpse of him, a dark reflection in the glass. The other people on the sidewalk hurried past, but he stood still, a little to the side, and when she glanced at him—the way you do in a crowd, without really looking at him—he was watching her.
Tall. Lanky. Dark-haired. Blue, cold eyes, with the look of a hunter.
She turned quickly away from the window and hurried down the street, a cold draft on the back of her neck.
Okay. This wasn’t her imagination. He had followed her. He was there, part of the impersonal crowd that gathered by the crosswalk. No one else was looking at her—that was for sure. Just him.
The light changed. The crowd surged forward. She surged with them.
The heat rose from the sidewalk and through the soles of her running shoes, and in the odor of the hot asphalt, she could almost smell the flames of hell.
Hell . . .
For a moment, the colors around her faded, turned pale and sepia-tinted, and the world stood still. . . .
She staggered and went down on one knee, and the pain brought her back.
Thank God. She couldn’t afford to do this now. She would not allow herself to do this now.
Bending her head, she pretended to tie her shoe, and when she stood, Mr. Aggressive had moved on. She darted into the quilting shop and walked swiftly toward the back.
With a smile, the lone, elderly clerk said, “Hi, I’m Bernice. May I help you with your quilting needs?”
“I’m just passing through.” Jacqueline paused, her attention captured by the long row of scissors hanging from hooks on the pegboard wall. “How much are those?”
“The scissors? It depends on the size and the quality, and what you intend to do with them.” Bernice bustled forward, ready to have a long conversation.
Jacqueline scanned the selection, grabbed an eight-inch, fifteen-dollar pair, and flung it on the counter.
“That pair is good as all-around scissors, but if you’re going to be cutting much material, you’d be happier with the slightly more expensive, chrome-plated Heritage Razor Sharpe shears.”
Jacqueline dug out her wallet and flung a twenty on top of the scissors. “I’m going to stab somebody with them.”
Bernice tittered; then as she stared into Jacqueline’s face, her smile faded. “Well . . . then . . . I suppose they’ll do.”
She backed toward the counter and the cash register so slowly, Jacqueline knew she couldn’t wait. She had about a minute before Mr. Aggressive realized he’d lost her, retraced his steps, and picked up on her trail again. Grabbing the scissors, she said, “Keep the change,” and swerved around the sales counter and into the back room.
“Hey!” Bernice called. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me,” Jacqueline muttered. She slipped the scissors in her pocket, and was out the back door and into the alley before Bernice said another word.
Jacqueline took a left and ran hard for the next street. With a glance in either direction, she caught another wave of the crowd and headed away from the courthouse. At an opportune moment, she dashed across traffic and ducked into another alley. She hid behind the first Dumpster, a hot, filthy metal bin that smelled like rotting Mexican food. She opened zippers, dug down to the bottom of her backpack, looking for her baseball cap. She found it, gave a sigh of relief as she tucked up her hair, and ran again, away from the crowds, and toward home.
Her apartment was two blocks away on the town’s former fashionable drive. If she could reach the old house, she’d be safe. Her stalker would be behind her. She’d have time to figure out what to do.
Like call the police? Not even.
Pack her bags and get out of town? No way.
Hide under the bed? Yeah, maybe.
She turned onto her quiet street, with its massive oaks and shady yards, slowed to a walk, and looked around, searching for any sign of him.
Nosy, retired Mr. Thomas stopped killing his weeds long enough to ask, “Hot enough for you?”
“Sure is,” she said. “Have you seen anything interesting come down the street? Any strangers?”
Mr. Thomas leaned on his shovel. “No. Were you expecting someone?”
“No. Just asking!” She smiled at him.
Nothing or, rather, no man disturbed the even tenor of the neighborhood.
So she was hot and sweaty, but triumphant. Mr. Aggressive might be the world’s all-time best tracker, but she’d lost him. That would teach him to terrorize young, single women.
She climbed the wooden steps onto the wide porch and checked her mailbox. A catalogue and a bill. She used her key to let herself in the side door and climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The old house had been divided into four apartments per floor, with a tiny kitchen and a living room, and a bedroom the size of a closet. She was one of the lucky ones; she had her own bathroom with a black-and-white ceramic tile floor, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub.
Still cautious, she tried the knob; her apartment was locked.
She pulled the scissors out of her pocket and held them like a knife. She inserted her key, swung the door wide, and looked inside. The living room and kitchen were empty. Everything was as she had left it.
Damn him. He really did have her on edge.
But better safe than sorry. Swiftly now, she shut the door behind her. She slid her scissors back in her pocket, set the dead bolt and fastened the chain, then dropped her backpack and hat and, peeling off her T-shirt, headed for the bedroom. She kicked her shoes toward the closet—and paused.
She could hear water running. No big deal, because the lavatory upstairs was right over her head and the pipes ran down the wall.
But this sounded like it was in her bathroom.
She walked through the door into the old-fashioned bathroom, and the steam hit her in the face.
She’d left the shower running.
Sure, this morning she’d been in a hurry, distracted by that sickening sepia world that hovered close to the edges of her consciousness. For the briefest second, she closed her eyes and touched the mark on her palm to the place on her forehead between her eyes.
Quickly, she took her hand away.
She didn’t want to acknowledge the ache that plagued her there. If she could just ignore it, it would go away. It always had before. . . .
The shower. She’d left the shower running.
How could she have been so careless? She had her hand on the green plastic curtain when the word echoed in her mind.
Careless . . .
And she realized . . . someone was in there.
Flinging the plastic curtain open, he pulled her inside.
Christina Dodd, Danger in a Red Dress
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