Page 15

ABI
I’ve seen that car before.
My eyes squint into the rearview at the black Nissan, and the more I stare the more I’m certain of it. It was parked outside the dry cleaners on Tuesday. I had the same sickening feeling of someone watching me then as I do now.
A horn blares behind me and I jolt, my hands slamming on the steering wheel. Glancing up at the green light I’m stopped at, I ease my foot off the break and continue away from Zeke’s preschool. I dropped him off not five minutes ago and hadn’t noticed the car then, but had it noticed me?
I rev the engine to my old Honda Civic and take a right turn and then two more so that I wind up at the same light where the car was parked a few car lengths behind me.
I roll through the light while flicking my eyes to every mirror. They aren’t there, or at least not that I can tell.
I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?
With a long exhale and a roll of my eyes, I point my Civic in the direction of home. I’m being paranoid and I know it. Ever since Gruco, orColter, confronted me I haven’t been able to sleep, let alone think about anything that isn’t the mysterious councilman candidate. Everywhere I go, I look for him and his men, watching me, ready to take me. They did a damn good job making it clear how easy it would be for them, and how easily they could make my son an orphan.
Except he wouldn’t be an orphan.
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter, and my foot pushes on the gas too hard and I have to stomp on the brake to keep from rear ending a red coupe in front of me. I ease off the pedal, but the thoughts swirling in my head only quicken. I’m not sure what I’m afraid of more, dying because the mafia thinks I’m trying to blackmail them or Zeke’s father finding him because of it. It would only be a matter of time after I came up missing that the police would figure out who Zeke is and connect him to the bullshit missing person reports my husband has issued in every state.
But that isn’t going to happen.
It won’t.
It can’t.
I didn’t blackmail anybody, and sooner or later Colter is going to figure that out. He probably already has, and the black Nissan is just a figment of my imagination. I won’t be seeing Colter Gruco again. In a month, when Zeke’s school lets out for spring break, we won’t even be seeing Las Vegas again. It’s loud and ostentatious and exactly the last place on the continent Devin would look for me, but I’m sick of it and doing a terrible job of keeping us safe.
Will weeverbe safe?
I drive the rest of the way to my apartment and then park the Civic in the lot. A few people file around, but I don’t find myself hypervigilant like I have been. They appear in my periphery as moving blurs, and a fog surrounds me as I ride the elevator to my floor. I stop by Ms. Gordon’s place to drop off the Civic’s key, and just as I’m about to drop the key in her mailbox, I remember I don’t need to. She won’t be watching Zeke tonight, as I won’t be going to work. Another bit of stress I can thank Colter for.
I slide the key back into my purse and walk the few feet to my door. When I go to turn the lock, the deadbolt doesn’t slide like it’s supposed to. It’s already unlocked.
Did I forget to lock it?
My heart stops, and I pull my hand back from the knob. I run through Zeke’s and my morning routine and try to remember locking the door, but it’s all a blur.
Quickly, I take the knob and twist, shoving the door open and revealing my empty living room.
I creep inside and scan the room, searching for anything that might appear off, and when I don’t see anything, I click the door shut, secure the deadbolt, and chastise myself for being so forgetful.
I drop my purse on the entryway table and walk to the kitchen, but stop dead in my tracks when an odor hits my nostrils. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and my instincts scream for me to run, but my muscles don’t budge.
Cologne. Expensive, woody cologne curls itself around me and squeezes until I can no longer breathe in anything but it.
“Abigail Prior,” Colter draws, pulling my eyes toward my bedroom doorway where he leans lazily against the frame. “Do you happen to have a social security card with that name on it?”
“What are you doing in my home?”
“Home?” Colter scoffs and pushes off the doorframe. I back into the kitchen when he comes toward me, but he walks past without giving me a glance. “I don’t know that I’d call this dump a home. Especially if I’d only been living here a few months.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, standing in the kitchen entryway. “What do you want?” I’m surprised by the bravado in my voice, especially considering how badly my palms are sweating, but Colter doesn’t seem impressed. He picks up my purse and dumps the contents onto the entryway table.
He finds my wallet and slips my driver’s license from its slot then brings it to his face to study it carefully. I know what he’s looking for and why he wants to see my social security card, but I’m not sure whether or not to be worried about it. It was only a matter of time before he discovered Abigail Prior isn’t my real name.
“This is a convincing fake,” he comments, tossing the license onto the table and turning back to look at me like he’s caught me doing something wrong. Like having a fake license is even close to the crimes I’m sure he’s committed. “Your guy’s good.”
“I’ll ask you again, what the hell do youwant?”