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The crazy, random thoughts popping into my head mean my anxiety is spiraling. I just got into a stranger’s car. Isn’t that something people learn not to do as a kid? Don’t fall for the candy, little girl. Only I hadn’t been lured with candy. Car parts and less cardio seem to do the trick. And now I’m thinking. . . non-platonic thoughts. . . about a total stranger when that’s very rarely happened to me before. Even with people I was dating.
Matt. I know his name, so he isn’t strictly a stranger. Should I text details to someone in case they find my body in chunks next week?
Probably. That would be the intelligent thing to do. I dig through my purse and find my phone, sending a brief text to my mom. Not that it will do much good. She’s four hours away and rarely even looks at her messages. The little notification icons annoyed her, so she turned them off. And she’s so occupied with work that she rarely remembers to check anything but her school email.
But still. The information has been relayed so the police will have a lead in my future murder investigation. I mean, once they figure out who the chunks are, they’d probably go to my mom first as next of kin, wouldn't they?
They’d at least check her messages.
Maybe he is a psychotic serial killer. His truck isn’t new, but it’s suspiciously clean.
I smile at him while I sneak a peek into his one empty cup holder. A crumb and a ring of moisture line the edge. Aren’t mechanics supposed to be dirty?
Maybe he isn’t a mechanic. He doesn’t look like one. On all the TV shows, mechanics usually sport grease stains on their jeans and need some hair styling. Matt looks more like he works in an office than a garage.
Then again, I probably shouldn’t base my idea of what a mechanic looks like on a stylized version on TV.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how’d you come by the name Lenore? It’s not one you hear every day.”
His voice is deep and relaxing, but the question still makes me jump. All of my mental squirreling has me forgetting he’s just across the cup holders from me.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
His eyebrows pull together, and a little wrinkle forms between them. I watch in fascination as concern fills his dark blue eyes, and a faint worry line pops up where he’s pursing his lips. I’m not used to people being so perceptive of the way I react to things. If I can convince him to keep helping, he’ll have to get used to it. Maybe he is a genuinely nice guy, but that’s not something I’m familiar with.
“It’s not you. It’s me.”
His mouth twitches, and the worry lines smooth back out, but he holds his silence. The smirk almost breaking through makes me think he’s, at the very least, not a sociopath. I realize he has the start of crow's feet around his eyes when he’s trying to hold back a smile.
“I might look like I do well in a crisis, but I’m a mess right now.” I feel the need to lower his expectations of me. Maybe then he’ll realize how easily startled I am.
“It’s probably all the adrenaline.”
It’s easier to agree than argue, so I nod and keep an eye on the businesses we’re passing, just in case. I still secretly think Matt, the suspiciously clean mechanic, might be kidnapping me.
McDonald's, up a hill, with another gas station. Some small businesses in a nondescript green building.
Should I text the names of the businesses in the building, or would a bunch of messages with random stores confuse Mom? She’s incredibly intelligent in the classroom, but outside of it, she lacks a bit of common sense.
It wouldn’t do any good since she won’t look at her phone, and she’s never visited me, so she has no familiarity with Sturgeon Bay. Maybe I could share my location. I stopped doing that when I moved up here since she’s used it as a way to monitor me before.
Focus, woman. He asked you a question.
“Edgar Allan Poe.” Way to blurt out a random factoid, Nore.
Matt glances over at me but is a good driver who tries to keep his eyes on the road, so it’s only fleeting.
He must have the patience of a saint to be tolerating me right now.
“My mother is an English teacher, and Poe is her favorite.”
“He wrote The Raven, right?”
“Yes, although Mom would tell you that her favorite work of his is The Cask of Amontillado.”
“Haven’t heard of that one. Can’t say that I get much of a chance to sit down and read.”
I just met him, but the way the brightness in his eyes dims makes me think he’s sad about that. I study him and notice he’s got faint circles under his eyes, and I’m guessing he survives on the coffee steaming away between us.
