Page 113 of The Grave Artist

The black SUV, the Ford Edge.

Yes, it was there. Definitely hanging back, allowing several cars between them. Seemed like what a pro would do. Okay, she had a tail. She struggled for calm, recalling her sister’s next instructions.

If youarebeing followed, take streets with traffic lights. If it’s green, slow down and wait until it turns yellow, then act like you’re going to stop. At the last second, gun it to get through an instant before it turns red.

She did just this at the next light: slowed dutifully at the yellow. Then punched it, zipping through as yellow went to red. She checked, and sure enough, the car directly behind her had stopped, forcing the Edge to stop as well.

Good.

If the tail’s forced to stop, immediately turn at the next possible street or alley, accelerate and lose yourself on surface roads.

This she did too.

She sorted through other tricks Carmen had taught her:

Call 9-1-1. But if you can’t, drive to the nearest police station or government building and lay on the horn until someone comes out to see what’s going on.

Regarding that advice: nope.

She continued on to her destination, Fillups, only now taking side streets, not the highway.

Soon she was cruising in the Stone Canyon hills. Traffic was less congested here, far more vegetation and, in places, an absence of vegetation. Sand, rock, dirt.

After making several turns to be sure no one was trailing her—black Ford, or anything else—she wound her way along Stone Canyon Parkway to Fillups, one of hundreds of independently owned gas stations in California. She saw it ahead of her, dusty and in need of paint and fronted by ancient pumps. She pulled into the lot around back, where her car wouldn’t be visible from the main road.

After a brief wait to make sure she was safe, Selina climbed out and walked inside. A forty-something woman with sun-burnished skin andsharp hazel eyes greeted Selina with a nod, when she walked through the smeared, heavy glass doors.

“Hey,” Selena said.

“Hey.”

Selina’s mouth was dry from Ford Edge–induced stress. She got a bottle of water from the second case from the counter (beer was the first). Then grabbed one of Jake Heron’s favorites, a Red Bull.

No one else was in the small convenience market attached to the station. Selina walked to the counter, paid for the drinks and sipped the water.

Recalling a conversation she’d had with Carmen years ago about gaining trust with witnesses and interviewees, she tried to personalize things.

“I’m Selina,” she said, smiling.

“Wanda,” came the automatic reply.

Selina looked around. “You the owner?”

Wanda nodded. “Yeah, I’ve had this place nearly ten years. Don’t want no chain franchise shit.”

Selina detected a note of pride. “Well, that’s great. I bet you see a lot of things around here.”

Another nod. “Part of the territory. No gas today, hon?”

“Fact is, Wanda ... got a question.”

“Hm?”

Selina realized her plan would work only if she came off as young and naive, so she tucked away some of the Sanchez grit.

“Okay.” She looked down. “The thing is ... See, I met this guy at a bar. North Hollywood.” She offered her most innocent smile. “I kind of like him. But I lost his number. I didn’t put it in my phone. I wrote it on a Post-it. Stupid.”

“In the ocean of stupid, hon, that’s a pretty small fish.”