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n him in the direction I want him to go.
He scoots around, going counter-clockwise. “Don’t get up until you no longer hear my engine. Otherwise—I’ll turn right back around and hold you here until the cops show up.”
“Okay.”
I bite my lip. It hits me then. The answer to my questions might very well be right in front of me. The simplest answer’s usually the right one. “Let me ask you a question…”
He glances over his shoulder.
I tilt my head. “Do you think one has a moral obligation to stop something horrible from happening to another person?”
His eyes narrow. He thinks I’m referring to this situation. He thinks I’m referring to him. “I don’t know.”
“You know what I think?”
He juts out his bottom lip and shakes his head.
“I think most people would say yes.”
He shrugs again. “Sounds very philosophical. Where I come from they don’t teach much of that.”
“Life teaches you,” I say.
He watches me carefully.
“But what if that person wronged them? Does the rule still apply?”
“Rules are rules.” He doesn’t believe his own lie.
“What about karma? Survival of the fittest?”
“I think karma has a way of working itself out. I don’t really think you have to help it along…”
It’s the first intelligent thing he’s said. But he’s wrong. Sometimes you do have to help it along. Alternatively, sometimes, and as luck would have it, in his case, you decide to just let it be.
“Turn around.”
He does as I ask. But first, I see the confusion on his face. It’s mixed with a bit of terror. He isn’t completely convinced I won’t put a bullet in the back of his head. It’s better this way.
I wait for a second just to make sure he continues to face the opposite direction. When I’m reasonably confident he’s going to comply, I remind him one last time. “Stay.” I start backward, carefully, meticulously, toward the safety of my car.
He scoffs. He’s not used to being told what to do. This is how it all starts. If only parents could press a fast-forward button, if they could see into the future, then this kid might’ve had a chance. Now, karma is going to work itself out, and in his case, it’s just a matter of time.
“Eyes straight ahead,” I remind him once I’ve reached my car. I don’t want him getting a look at my license plate. I’ve scared him. But probably not enough. Retribution can be a bitch. I should know.
That’s why I was here in the first place.
Chapter Two
Izzy
Two months before that...
I notice them straight away. Ironically, it’s her that catches my eye first. Not because she is the same as the rest of them, but because she is different. I’m serving up my ten-thousandth non-fat, no whip, ridiculous flavored, over-priced latte of the day when I look up and the clouds part. Sunlight comes pouring in, and I swear if I believed in angels, I could hear them singing. As perfect as the two of them might be. She seems to sense that I am looking, and she smiles, almost shyly, although I’d be willing to bet she isn’t that shy at all. She meets my eye and then quickly looks away, toward the man standing to her left. I hadn’t quite taken him in, but I do then. Maybe this is what makes her different. She makes others see what she wants them to see. She meets my eye, and again she smiles. I’m pretty sure I do hear angels this time. Or maybe it’s just the Alanis Morissette song screaming at us over the sound system. I straighten my apron. She sees me. The others around here— they never do. For them, I’m just a means to an end, someone to dish out their fix. She meets my eye again, briefly, and I can see it’s not like that with her.
When she finally gets up to the counter to place her order, I can tell I’m right by the way her hand flies to her throat as she scans the offering. She isn’t sure what she wants; she’s not a regular like the majority of women on this side of town.
“Can I help you?” I ask, and this time she doesn’t look at me. She’s staring at the menu, tracing her collarbone lightly with the tips of her perfect fingers, and it’s striking how someone so beautiful could be so unsure of herself.
