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“Hey,” I say, leaning down to see Bo behind the wheel.
“Hey, Greer.” He waves and tips his head, also wearing a ball cap and shades.
“Um, you guys know the entire team uses the same disguise, right? You’re not fooling anyone.”
They both laugh and Mack opens the back seat, retrieving his duffle bag. “You’ve got a point. Thankfully, we have our own terminal and they're pretty good at keeping our privacy.”
“Well, I fly with the peasants and we don’t have that level of security, so we better get going before someone notices. I’m not prepared to fend off your fans.”
Mack takes my suitcase and throws his free arm around my shoulders before addressing Bo. “Later, man. Thanks again for the ride. I’ll see you at the field in the morning.”
Once Bo drives off, we start to walk toward the parking lot. I lean into Mack’s side, appreciating his nearness and the fact we’re back in New Orleans. I like traveling, but I also really love coming home.
“Shit, Greer,” Mack says as we continue to walk. “Could you have parked any further away?”
I chuckle, fixing my own sunglasses to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. “I’m sorry. To say I was struggling yesterday is an understatement. Stupid car service canceled on me and then when I got here there were no close parking spaces. The covered garage was full, so I was relegated to this.”
My laughter dies when I see my car coming into view and immediately notice something isn’t right.
Mack catches the stutter in my step and his eyes go where mine have landed.
“Fuck,” he mutters, sounding every bit as frustrated and shocked as I feel. “What thefuck?”
Dropping his duffle bag, he looks around the parking lot, checking our surroundings and then takes out his phone.
“Hey, Bo. I’m sorry to do this, but can you come back to the airport and give us a ride home?”
I’m not sure what Bo says, because my mind kind of checks out for a moment.
There’s only one logical explanation tofourflat tires. One, minor inconvenience and it could happen to anyone. Two, you’re having a shitty day and probably ran over a pile of nails. But four…four can only mean one thing.
“He did this, didn’t he?”
Mack pulls me into his chest and presses his lips to my forehead. “I don’t know, baby, but we’ll get this all sorted out. I promise.”
I believe him.
When Mack tells me things, I believe him.
But I also know this guy—this person, whoever is doing this to me—they’re not right. Typical people don’t harass and stalk and slash your tires. They just don’t.
I’m trying not to be afraid, but it’s getting harder and harder, because if they’ll do this, what else are they capable of?
* * *
“Hello?”I say, answering my phone as I finish gathering the things I need to take with me to the field tonight for the first playoff game in the ALCS.
“Greer, it’s Detective Briggs.”
“Hey, is everything okay?”
He sighs into the phone. “We got the footage from the airport and there's a time gap.”
Pausing, I glance around the newsroom for Brian. “What does that mean?”
“It means, whoever cut your tires also found a way to cut the surveillance video.”
About that time, Brian motions for me from the back door and I jog his way. “How does that happen? How can someone cut the video at the airport? Isn’t that supposed to be heavily monitored? I mean, it’s the airport.”
