Page 47 of Rockland

I stuff the rest of my belongings into my waiting, opened suitcase. Throw my passport, the cash, and a map of where I think the Parish might be into my purse. Lug everything down three flights of stairs, by myself. Step out on to my stoop and close the door behind me.

I’m out of breath. Damp in the armpits from my exertion. But a feeling akin to pride wells in my chest.

Since joining the Village, I’ve never been outside of the city by myself.

Leaving my suitcase on the stoop for the driver to retrieve, I smile wide and head toward the car. I stop in my tracks as soon as I realize who’s in the driver’s seat.

It’s not my driver Frank, it’s John Bachman. His sleek black car is so similar to mine, I didn’t even notice it wasn’t mine. John gives me a smile and a friendly wave from behind the dark glass before stepping out to greet me.

I groan.

Damn this Village. Can’t anyone do anything without everyone knowing everything?

“Hey, John, what’s up?” I ask.

He shuts his door, leaning against the car. A handsome smirk grows across his face, getting broader by the second. “What have we got here? Dora the Explorer? Little orphan Annie off to find her real parents? Pippi Longstocking off on a traveling adventure⁠—”

“Cut the crap, John. Why are you here?”

He raises a brow at my tone. I do not stand down. Instead, I cock my hip and throw my hand on my waist. He says, “I’m here to escort you, of course.”

I want to roll my eyes but don’t push my luck. “But I’m just off to the… ah… zoo. I thought this outfit would be cute to see the bears and tigers and such.” I do a little twirl. “Don’t you think?”

“Which zoo is that, exactly?”

“Ah… the big one?”

“Would that be the Bronx Zoo? Catskills Game Farm? Central Park Zoo? Seneca Park Zoo? Prospect Park Zoo? Buffalo Zoo? Stop me if I name it.”

“The third one you said. That one.”

“And the suitcase?”

“I was going to get a hotel. In case I needed two days to see everything. I’m quite the animal enthusiast, you know.”

“The only connection you have to animals is when you’re wearing their prints on your blouses or your five-hundred-dollar shoes. Get in the car. I’ll get your bag.”

“Seriously? Can I not go on a trip without a male escort? This is ridiculous.”

“Get in the car or you’ll not be leaving the Village. Your choice.”

Our gazes lock—a staring contest of wills. I, of course, lose and head to the passenger side of the car. Huffing and puffing my indignance all the way.

I slam the door, cross my arms over my chest, and wait for my escort.

When he gets in the car he gives me a long look. “What the hell was in that bag? You thought you were going to be able to check that thing? It must have weighed seventy pounds.”

“I need a lot of… equipment… for where I’m going.”

“And where it that, exactly?”

“Don’t you know? You’ve shown up at my doorstep at the exact time my driver was supposed to arrive. Where is Frank, anyway?”

“Gave the old fellow the day off. Thought he might need it after dealing with the likes of you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You’ve been a little—touchy? Out of sorts? Since, well… you know.”