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SEVENTY-ONE

TOMMY MALONE PUTS ON sunglasses and a COVID mask before he leaves his car. Say what you want about the pandemic, but it normalized the practice of disguising one’s face. Especially when you’re on the grounds of a hospital, where most people still wear a mask as a matter of course.

In his case, it helps obscure the fat lip he has from last night, from David’s headbutt. He needed another round of painkillers this morning, too, though he’s feeling better now.

The hospital parking garage is the perfect cover. People are always coming and going. So much easier than going to Marcie’s house, which is basically off-limits now with the police car stationed outside.

He finds her SUV on the second story of the covered garage. He keeps walking and looks casually around, pretending to use a device on his key chain to find his own car. But seeing nobody around, he doubles back to Marcie’s car.

Another quick look around, then he drops to his haunches and slips the GPS device under the rear fender, hearing the hard click of the magnet.

Just as effortlessly, almost without breaking stride, he heads back to the stairs of the parking garage. He pulls out his phone and sees a nice round orange dot for Marcie’s vehicle.

He’ll be tracking her wherever she goes.

“Now I just need to get you alone,” he whispers.