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It’s blank. I flip it over. Someone has scrawled a message on the other side in black Sharpie:
I know who was responsible for the drugs. Meet me at the back of Picnic & Treats Café at 5:03 pm. Come alone.
There’s nothing to indicate where it came from. No other message. No names. No local business info. Nothing.
I glance around the parking lot. But other than a mother loading her two young kids into a red van, no one else is here.
I take in the squat brick buildings surrounding the area. If anyone’s watching, they aren’t visible from where I’m standing.
It’s 3:40 p.m. If I leave now, I’ll just make it to the meeting place in time. I climb into my SUV. It’s possible the note is nothing more than a prank. But I can’t risk that it isn’t.
I arrive in Maple Ridge without any delays, park my vehicle on a side street, and jog to Picnic & Treats. Simone is exiting the café as I approach.
“Hi, didn’t expect to see you here.” The sadness clouding her eyes from yesterday is still there. And her smile—it’s as if her lips have forgotten how to form the shape.
A screech of tires slices the air. My head jerks up in time to catch a pickup truck jump the curb, hurtling toward us.
I yank Simone into the alley next to the building. The momentum causes us to lose our footing and we go down. My body lands first, hip and shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. Simone falls on top of me, her knee narrowly missing my junk.
The truck speeds past. Fuck. The driver didn’t even stop to make sure we’re okay.
Simone doesn’t say anything. She’s trembling, and her breathing sounds like she sprinted the block. I help her to her feet and check for injuries. Physically she appears to be okay.
“Is your shoulder hurt?” Her voice trembles, the dry sound barely more than a whisper. She rubs her arms.
“It’ll be fine,” I say even though that’s a goddamn lie. I landed on my wounded shoulder, and it’s not too impressed.
But right now, my major concern is Simone. That, and how the hell am I supposed to meet the person who left the note on my windshield?
Leaving Simone alone isn’t an option—not after an incident like that. Nor is bringing her with me. I intertwine our fingers and lead her into Picnic & Treats. “Let’s get you a hot chocolate to calm you.”
Zara is working the front counter when we enter. She glances toward the door, spots Simone’s pale face and our dirty clothes, and rushes over to us, abandoning the customer she was serving. “What happened?”
“Can you take her to your staff room while I check something out? I’ll be right back.”
Zara nods, and I’m out the door before Simone can say anything.
I sprint around the corner to the alley and scan the area. No one is here.
Dammit.
They might have slipped away while I was taking Simone into Treats. Or worse yet. What are the odds the note was a setup? That the truck intentionally tried to hit us?
Or specifically, me.
I search the dingy alley. No one is hiding behind the dumpster. I kick the metal container with my hiking shoe. “Is anyone in here?”
No one answers.
I pull out my phone, dial 9-1-1, tell the dispatcher what happened, and return to Picnic & Treats. Simone is sitting on the couch when I enter the staff room. A brightly colored blanket covers her shoulders. Zara is on one of the armchairs.
“I’m sending out an officer now,” the dispatcher informs me. I end the call and sit next to Simone, slipping my fingers between hers. She’s still trembling and her hands are cold.
“The cops are on their way,” I tell her and Zara. “How are you doing?” I direct the question to Simone.
“Where did you go?” she asks.
“I needed to check on something. Are you okay?”
