The car is out with another renter so I can’t see it. She tells me she’s rented it twice more since that afternoon. “I’m booked pretty solid.”
I think about fingerprints and shoe prints and fibers from clothing.Too much evidence.The cash is gone now as well.None at all.
“And when he came back with the car?” I ask her. “Same thing? He rang the bell and you came to the door from upstairs? No look at which direction he’d come from?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“And when he left—did you see which direction he walked?”
She squints and looks out at the street through the window, trying to remember. “No. Not really. I just kind of went inside while he was walking back to the sidewalk.”
I try to slow myself down, stop worrying about the time that’s ticking away.
Options come and go. Adoor-to-doorcanvass asking about the blue truck parked on the street would take hours and likely lead to nothing I could use. I’ve already confirmed he was here. I need a plate number for the truck.
I picture him in that car, scrunched down low so his head doesn’t hit the roof. This was intentional on his part. He’s tall and drives a truck, so any association made would gravitate toward large vehicles. It’s basic psychology, how our minds crave order. The first time I looked through the recording from the parking lot, my eyes were drawn to SUVs. I had to force myself to overcome the assumptions and search every vehicle. Then I saw him, barely fitting in this small car. The baseball cap, just as she described. Sunglasses as well—classicRay-Bansor knockoffs. The red jacket.
He turned the corner, drove right past our people parked at the end of the row. He didn’t slow down or turn to look at them. He was smarter than that. But when he got to the diner, he couldn’t resist. A car was pulling out so he stopped to yield, even though he had the right of way. He stopped so he could look in the window and see me sitting at the booth. Desperate to meet with him. To make him stop. Knowing he wouldn’t do either. When the car in front had pulled out, he didn’t delay. That would have caused a scene, someone honking behind him. He drove off, a big smile across his face.
I think about what I’ve started, and it scares me. Yes, he was careful. But all of this—renting this car, exposing himself unnecessarily—something was driving him. Something emotional just as I’d thought. He had nothing tangible to gain from making contact.
If what he craved was power over me, he could have gotten that by watching me from afar. Across the road from the diner, there must be dozens of places he could have observed me driving into the lot. Parking. Getting out of my car and walking inside.
It had to be more than that. More than being able to make me do things. He was showing off his newly acquired skills. Finding the perfect car to rent. Leaving no trace of himself beyond this one witness. Driving right past us to see me in the booth waiting. Using a decoy—the kid in the blue truck. Committing small crimes and evading detection by me and by Rowan.
Still, he took the risks because he wanted me to know. He wanted me to see just how good he was becoming.
I think about what he’s been texting me.
Your life will never be the same now.
You’ve killed a man and you can’t take itback.
I’ll show you. Just wait. It’s coming.
Yes, I think to myself. He wants to show me what he can do, and that there’s more. I move from thoughts of what he might know and what he can do, even what he’s learned from me through my posts on the college portal, to who he is. What is it he wants to show me? And what will that get him? Does he crave my approval? My admiration? Or does he want to regain control? And from there, what’s next? I think about the class on stalkers. About how it’s a crime that can never succeed. Yet Wade must believe he can get around this rule. Whatever he wants to show me holds the key to that belief.
I barely hear the girl when she speaks again.
“What?” I ask her.
“He had something with him. A plastic bag.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It was folded up when he got the car. Neatly, like in a little square. And then when he dropped off the keys, it was crumpled up in his hand, like he’d used it for something.” The bag, she tells me, was white. And it was empty both times. Only he had obviously unfolded it while he had the car.
“What kind of mats are on the floor?”
She shrugs like she can’t remember.
“You must clean it,” I say. “Vacuum it sometimes so it’s presentable?”
Her eyes light up. “Oh yeah! They’re just like the rug kind. You know, like the same stuff that’s on the roof.”
He used the plastic bag on the floor, to keep it clean. He could wipe down everything he touched inside. But if we got to the car before it was used again, his shoe prints might be left on the floor mats.
Now I have another thought. “Did he leave the keys in the car when he returned it?”
