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“Not really. The sun is in my eyes.”
“Hm. Can you read the plates?”
“Not right now—he’s not close enough. Wait.” I brake, slowing down. Squinting, I say, “I think they’re paper plates…”
“Can you tell if it’s a man?”
“No—yes—I don’t know.” I’m sure of nothing. Fear has me on edge. “I can’t tell.”
“Amy…listen…I need you to take a few breaths and calm down. Where are you?”
“Elmore Street. By Home Depot.”
“Good. It’s busy, right? Lots of people?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“How’s your gas gauge?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not right now. But it’s something to think about in the future.”
“I’m not thinking about the future,” I hiss. “I’m thinking about right fucking now. This moment. The fact that I’m being followed.”
“Just keep driving as though you’re looking for something. A store…a parking spot…whatever.” He clears his throat. “And calm down. I’m not going to ask you to do a J-turn.”
“What’s a J-turn?”
“A reverse 180.”
It feels like I’ve already done that.
“Is he still behind you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see him.”
“Look again. Just don’t make it obvious. Make a few turns if you can.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“One sighting of a potentially suspicious vehicle—may be nothing. Two sightings—suspicious behavior. Three sightings—even separated by time or distance—assume surveillance. One thing to keep in mind—and Aim, this is the important part…”
“What?”
“Target identification is the signal that often starts the attack.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Jesus, Alex. Speak in simple terms.”
“It means it may be the last chance you have to recognize danger before the actual attack starts.”
“Good to know.”
I hang up on him and dial 9-1-1.
The dispatcher tells me to look for the officer. Every thirty seconds or so she repeats how far away he is and how long it will take for him to reach me. It feels like an eternity before I finally spot his car, but in reality it’s only four minutes.
I pull into a parking spot in front of Home Depot. The officer parks next to me, comes around to the driver’s side, and rests his elbows on my door. He’s an older man, bald and round, with a face that looks too friendly to be a cop. He asks for a description of the car and I reiterate the same thing I told the dispatcher. I explain who I think it is, and he asks if I have a restraining order.
