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I get to my car and open the door to get her into the passenger seat. Then I walk around the front and get behind the wheel.
She glares at me, looking a little like an angry kitten. I try not to smile in return. I don’t mind the anger, but it’s the slight trace of fear I see in her eyes that bothers me.
“Relax,” I tell her again. “I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. I'm just taking you home. Do you have anyone to call? I’ll give them my name and social, so if anything happens to you, they can send a description to the police.”
She’s still glaring at me, stubbornly refusing to speak to me.
I shake my head and whip out my phone to make a call.
Jeff answers on the third ring. “What do you want?"
“What’s your badge number?”
He rattles off the number and asks, “Why do you need it?”
“I got someone in my car. I need you to vouch that I’m not a serial killer or a rapist."
“He’s not," Jeff says. “Just a general asshole.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I respond and hang up.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” she says, but she relaxes somewhat against the seat.
“Where am I taking you?” I ask instead of addressing it. She hesitates for a few seconds, and then just when I think she won't talk, she grumbles out the address.
It's a five-minute walk from here, though about seven minutes away by car, because we have to take the longer route, so it makes sense she was walking there. We drive mostly in uncomfortable silence, where the air practically trembles with her seething.
“Is it just your ankle?" I ask conversationally.
"Huh?" she responds without looking at me.
"Your ankle," I say. "I'm guessing you sprained it."
"No. It's fine."
"Sure. Must have been why you were limping. Because your ankle is totally fine."
I can practically hear her grind her teeth at my sarcasm, and this time, I laugh to myself.
"Ice it for a few days and it should be fine," I say.
She nods tightly and turns to the window, effectively ending the conversation.
Eventually, we reach an apartment complex that looks like all the other ones that populate the Landon suburbs.
Except that on one of the second-floor apartments, there's a woman currently throwing clothes off a balcony.
"What the hell?" I mutter, and my companion gasps. But she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the woman in horror. She reaches for the door, attempting to open it while I'm still pulling into the driveway and then turns to glare at me when it doesn't open.
"What are you doing?" I ask because I'm half certain she's insane. "Opening a moving car? That's a smart idea."
"Let me out," she orders.
"Say please," I shoot, but then she immediately turns to the window again. I follow her gaze finding her entranced with the woman on the top floor.
"No." A tiny gasp of horror leaves her as the woman shoves a tiny wooden chest over the railing. As it goes clattering on the ground, my passenger desperately
yanks the handle and jerks out, limping over till she’s standing directly under the balcony with clothes being thrown off.
