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The house: 342 Standard Street.
The schedule . . .
It’s nine-fifteen in the morning, and I am afraid I may have missed him. I put the car in park and hope I’m wrong. Five minutes later, I see him walk out the front door, still pushing his shirt into his pants. He is six feet tall, about two hundred fifty pounds, balding, and his skin is pockmarked.
Behind him is a much younger woman who is not his wife. She is wearing a big floppy sun hat and large black shades. If she’s trying to go undetected, she is failing miserably.
A cab pulls up, and I see him hand her cash before she runs down the driveway in her six-inch stilettos and climbs in the cab.
He walks back inside, and a few minutes later, the garage door opens. He pulls out in his tan Jeep, clearly in a hurry and distracted, because he drives over the corner of the curb before peeling out and heading down the road.
I follow him and watch as he pulls into the parking lot of his office building. I drive past slowly and make my way to the parking area next to the public waterfront where I grab my book and my pen and write down the last two men’s departure times.
I lean back and stretch as I look at the sunlight’s reflection over the calm water of the Detroit River.
I wish it were as easy as it was back when I was a child with a fishing pole in hand, standing next to my dad, just staying there for hours and hours, waiting patiently for something to bite. This was his favorite place; he used to tell me that. And I was his favorite girl, because I would fish with him and my sister wouldn’t.
He would take her to a museum or a concert in the park, but I wouldn’t choose anyplace over this one. Not for a million dollars and a million cents; that’s what I used to tell him.
“You’re one of a kind, kiddo.” He would wink at me.
“Two of a kind, Daddy.” I would laugh in response.
“Oh, I forgot.” He would wink again then tweak my nose. “Me and you.”
I would laugh, and so would he.
No time to reminisce, I tell myself.
I grab the notebook and look through it. Four of the nine names have been scratched off my list of suspects since they haven’t been in their positions long enough. Out of the ones I staked out today, Adrian, Charlotte, and Waters seem the most likely.
I put on my gloves then pull out the paper, tape, scissors, and newspapers. I take out the copy of the newspaper from the day it all happened and tape it to the top of a blank sheet of paper. I use the scissors to cut and trim out the letters and numbers I need, then tape them to it. I fold it up, then place it in the envelope already stamped, addressed, and ready to be mailed.
I do this three times. It will go to three people, and then I will sit and watch what happens next.
After dropping the envelopes into a post office box on the corner of a busy street, I drive away, hopeful that my vengeance will be delivered soon.
Chapter Five
After working my shift, I walk outside and quickly toward my vehicle. I hear a whistle, and the hair on the back of my neck immediately stands up. I quicken my pace.
“Hey.” I hear a gruff voice call from behind me. “Hey, you! Stop.”
I run to my car and jump in, locking it behind me. My hand shakes as I shove the key into the ignition. Then I hear a tap on the window as I start the car.
I am afraid to look, but when the knock is harder this time, I force myself to.
I immediately recognize the man, the patient from last night, the one who was beaten. He motions for me to roll down my window, and when I don’t, he cocks his head to the side and looks confused.
I roll it down just enough that I can hear him, but not enough for him to be able to reach in.
“Name’s Jason. I’m almost positive I owe you a thank-you for last night.”
I nod and force a smile. “You’re welcome.”
His head cocks again, and he glances around then back at me. “You okay?”
“Of course,” I answer.
“You sure about that? You took off running like you had a reason to. You took care of me, Nurse . . . ?”
“Lorraine,” I answer in a whisper.
“All right, Lorraine.” He nods then sighs. “Look, I owe you for sticking around last night—”
“I was just doing my job, Jason. Glad to help and glad you’re okay.”
“I owe you one, okay? If you ever need anything”—he pauses then pulls out a pen and tears off a piece of what I assume is his discharge paper and jots something down—“you call me.”
