His gaze keeps sweeping the parking lot, the building entrance, the cars around us.Threat assessment.The same thing I am doing.But when he glances at me, there is something else in his expression.Something watchful and possessive that makes my stomach flip.
I shove that thought down.Not everyone is Randall.
The Ram's window is down now.I can see the driver—male, sunglasses, thick beard streaked with gray.Not Randall.Wrong build, wrong hair, wrong everything.I’ve never seen this guy in my life.He lights a cigarette and blows smoke, looking bored.
Maybe I had been imagining things.
Relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle.I have to lock them to stay upright.
"Friend of yours?"my neighbor asks quietly.The guy in the truck is still looking at me.Maybe he is one of Randall’s goons. Or maybe I’m so paranoid I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground.
"No."I unlock my car with shaking hands.The chirp of the lock sounds too loud."Never saw him before in my life."
He waits while I load my groceries into the trunk, his attention split between me and the Ram.When I slam the trunk closed, the sound echoes across the lot.He steps back, giving me space but not much.
"You live in 6A, right?"he says.
I nod.
"Timothy Shannon.Army.Retired.I’m in 6B."
Army.I was right.And now I know his name.
"Carla Alexander," I offer, though I don’t mention I’m a Marine.The less he knows, the better.The less anyone knows, the safer I am.
"Good to meet you."He studies me for a moment, and nods. At what I don’t know."If that guy bothers you again, let me know."
"I can handle myself."
"Wasn’t a doubt in my mind."His mouth curves slightly.Not quite a smile, but something close."But the offer stands anyway."
He walks to a black F-150 two spaces over, climbs in, and starts the engine.The truck is clean, well-maintained.Not flashy.
I get in my Honda and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.My mouth is dry.I watch him in my rearview mirror, and he is waiting.Making sure I leave safely.
The Ram pulls out first, heading toward the exit without slowing or looking back.
Not Randall.Just some random guy who happened to be parked near me.Just paranoia and eight months of looking over my shoulder finally catching up to me.
I start the car and drive home, and when I glance in the mirror, Timothy Shannon's truck is three cars back, following me all the way to our apartment complex on the edge of town where the buildings are old and the rent is cheap and no one asks questions.
He doesn’t pull into his spot until I am parked and halfway to the building entrance.I feel his eyes on me the whole way.
I should be annoyed.Insulted, even.I am a former Marine who did two tours in Afghanistan and survived worse things than parking lot creeps and overprotective neighbors.
