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“Anytime.”
I let myself out the back, making sure to pull the door closed until it clicks locked behind me. Outside, the afternoon sun is beating down on the Dressmaker’s small surface parking lot, heating the asphalt so that it radiates around me, pressing in from all sides. The air in the small, three-car lot is hot and stifling, and when I take a breath the dry heat sticks in the back of my throat.
MyJeepsits idly next to Suzanne’s redCamry, exactly where I left it when we brought it home last night. Everything is as it should be.
But still, something doesn’t seem right. There’s a smothering familiarity creeping up my spine, one that has my head swiveling left and right, searching for someone watching me or waiting to talk to me.
But nobody is there.
Stepping down the last few steps that lead from the Dressmaker, I head for my car. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck pull tight, shooting a fleet of goosebumps down both my arms.
On the sidewalk adjacent to the lot, two men meander past, each holding aStarbuckscoffee. I stop. They do not. They keep walking, not even sparing me a glance.
I wait until their quiet conversation fades, and then move forward again, car key in hand.
I press the button to unlock my car. But the cheery single beep does not sound.
This has only ever happened once before, when I accidentally left the interior light on, and my car battery died. I had to wait three hours for AAA to come and jump start it.
I don’t have three hours.
My frustration takes over. Furious with myself, I yank open the door and climb into the driver’s seat before discarding my purse on the floor.
I place the key in the ignition and turn it, smiling with relief when a healthy stutter marks the sound of the engine starting.It must be the locking system, I think.
And then I look in my rearview mirror.
I don’t jump or scream when I see the familiar, square face staring at me from the back seat of my car, the black eyes lethally flat.
I don’t beg.
I don’t scramble to get out.
My blood simply freezes.
My limbs lock, making escape physically impossible.
I do not move at all.
I don’t even breathe for a full five seconds as we sit there, looking at one another, each with an equal understanding of how this ends.
My heart starts beating in painful clenches, each pump spreading fear further around my body until even my toes curl and my hands tighten on the steering wheel.
I feel sick.
Everything is slow and clear: There is a trail of sweat slicking down my spine, my hands are numb from my death grip, and my breathing has started deep but not calm at all, like someone trying to stop themselves from hyperventilating. The sawing sound of it steals the air out of the car, and, as silly as it sounds, I wonder if he is suffocating too.
He is the monster from my nightmares, cold and unflinching. He has not changed a day though it has been four years since I last saw him.
He doesn’t grin or sneer like so many of the cruel men I have known. His face is completely expressionless,his eyes void of any emotion. And being confronted with his stoic indifference is far worse than facing someone with a volatile temper. Because I know instinctively that this man will do terrible things and wear that exact same expression.
He is the first to speak. “Drive.”
Hearing his voice after all this time is like a pin prick to a balloon. The moment his deep voice issues through the space between us I know that I can never go back from this moment. Everything comes rushing at me, all the memories and nightmares. All the dark days and bright, party-lit nights. The hazy vision and groping hands spreading my legs…
There is a small part of me, a broken, lost part of my soul, thatwantsto go. I know what’s waiting for me there: A short, numb life. And there is sick comfort in that.
I close my eyes quickly, blinking away the tears that threaten. If I go, I will not come back. “I ca-”
