Where are you?
Obviously it’s not an emergency, or she would have stated what she needed and requested an immediate response. Or called.
Without replying, I start off again and head north out of the greenway and up Moss Road Drive, through a neighborhood that’s directly across the river from the Grand Ole Opry complex.
I’ve run over five miles before I even realize it and I take a moment to stretch. I’ve made it almost all the way up into Northern Inglewood, and now the choice is do I want to take a shortcut home, or retrace my steps? It looks like it might start raining soon, which won’t stop me. I’ve run in the rain countless times before.
I’ve stopped in the shade of a tree at the edge of a busy gas station parking lot. I’m debating whether or not to go in and buy myself a bottle of water when a marked Tennessee Highway Patrol SUV wheels into the parking lot, its blue bubble lights flashing, and pulls right up to me.
I automatically hold up my hands, removing my right ear bud as I do so I can hear his instructions, and wonder if someone called me in as a suspicious person or something.
My heart pounds while dozens of scenarios flash through my head, none of them ending well for me. I usually pass for white, especially when I’m wearing a tailored suit and driving my Jag, but right now I’m just a light-brown guy running with a Rolex on my wrist that doesn’t look like it belongs there.
The trooper steps out of his marked unit, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. I don’t recognize this officer so he’s probably not part of EPU. “Declan Howard?”
Confused, I nod. “Yes?”
“You can put down your hands, sir.” He speaks a code into the radio mic on his shoulder before he opens the back door and waits, his meaning clear.
Fuck.
My fear flashes over to rage.
I’m going to fuckingkillher.
“I don’t suppose I can go inside and buy myself a bottle of water first, can I?”
“Sorry, sir. I have orders to transport you immediately.”
Resigned and embarrassed, I trudge to the SUV, well aware of the way customers at the gas station are gawking over the sight of the light brown guy being loaded into the back of the cop car. This public mortification is only slightly tolerable because it’s doubtful any of those people even know who the fuck I am.
At least I’m not being hauled away in handcuffs. Although this is the first time in my life I’ve ridden in the prisoner compartment of a law enforcement vehicle.
“Can you crank up the air for me, at least?” I ask after I buckle my seat belt and he climbs behind the wheel again.
“Yes, sir.” I feel cool air blowing on me as we head out.
I angrily punch in a text to Casey’s personal cell and don’t bother sending it through Signal.
Little fucking overkill, isn’t this? I’m not allowed a few fucking hours to myself?
I hit send and immediately regret it, but too late now. I’m resentful of my run being interrupted. I’m resentful of this intrusion when I’m trying to work shit out in my head.
I didn’t fucking ask to be made a public spectacle. I didn’t ask to be made…powerlesswithout any input or my consent being sought first.
It angers me in a way I’ve never felt before about her, or George.
A few minutes later, we pull into the deserted parking lot outside Nissan Stadium, where Casey’s waiting in her car. The officer parks next to her, opens the door for me, and doesn’t hang around once I get out.
Her car’s running, air on. I climb into the passenger seat and she hands me a cold bottle of water.
“Thanks,” I mumble, taking it and immediately downing half of it. If I wasn’t so fucking thirsty now, I would have refused it on principle.
She stares out her windshield and I don’t bother interrupting her or explaining myself.
After a few minutes, she finally speaks. “You going to talk to me about it?”
“About what?”
