I sit in the car outside the safe house. In the rearview mirror, I keep an eye on the front door. I’m hoping she’ll follow me out. Crack the door and call my name and tell me she didn’t mean it.
But the door stays closed.
She called me a helicopter, but what she really meant was that I’ve been haunting her, like some obsessive guardian angel with a death wish. How many times now has she begged me to let her stand on her own two feet? Why can’t I agree to such a simple, black-and-white request?
I know why. Because the thought of her alone, vulnerable, blind, pregnant, carryingmy child, in a world where Aleksei is actively hunting us, makes me want to fucking murder something.
So no.Sorry, Eliana, but I can’t just give you what you want. Not if you want you want is to get far the fuck away from me. Maybe I once thought that distance would protect you, but I know better now.
I’m never letting you out of my fucking sight again.
I sit for a long time until finally, there’s motion. I watch from down the block as the Uber pulls up. Eliana emerges from the safe house with her walking stick in hand. She goes down the drive, climbs into the backseat, and disappears.
The Uber pulls away. I count to five, then follow.
I keep three cars between us, switching lanes when necessary, never getting close enough for the driver to clock me in his mirrors. The clinic is in a strip mall off Gross Point Road, sandwiched between a Culver’s and a DoubleTree. I park across the street, engine idling, and watch Eliana step out of the car and make her way toward the building’s front door.
I’ll just do a perimeter check, I tell myself.Make sure nothing looks suspicious. I won’t go inside. She’ll never even know I was here.
I do my lap, but to no one’s surprise, the place is banal and boring. Nothing is amiss. Pregnant women filter to and from their vehicles, anxious fathers pace around, nurses step outside to chain-smoke. I chain-smoke, too, as the minutes crawl past. I burn through half a pack in half an hour, lighting each new cigarette off the dying ember of the last, filling the car with a haze that burns my eyes.
I swore last night on the porch was a one-time thing. But here I am, ash accumulating in the cupholder, doing a lot of shit I said I’d never do again.
Spiraling uselessly is another one of those things. I can’t help the questions from rising up in my head, though. One after the next. Relentless, pointless.What if something’s wrong with the baby? What if she needs me and I’m out here in this parking lot like a fucking stalker while she’s alone in there getting news that changes everything? What if she collapses in that sterile hallway and no one thinks to call me because, legally speaking, I’m a corpse?
I’m so caught up in meaningless hypotheticals that I almost miss something I cannot afford to miss: a man crossing the parking lot toward the clinic entrance.
Something about his gait sets off every alarm in my nervous system.
He’s tall, wearing a dark jacket with the collar flipped up even though it’s almost ninety degrees outside. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders are shrugged up and forward, like he doesn’t want anyone to see his face. His eyes rove from side to side.
My hand drifts to the gun tucked in my waistband. As I watch, the man swerves in the parking lot. He doesn’t head for the main entrance, where cameras and receptionists might catch sight of him. Instead, he circles around to the side of the building, toward what looks like an employee entrance, with a cool confidence to his stride.
I know that walk. I’ve walked that way myself, back when Aleksei’s errands took me places I had no business being.
Move like a shadow.
Act like you belong.
Kill what needs killing, then get out.
A lit cigarette falls from my fingers. I’m out of the car before I’ve consciously decided to move, crossing the lot at a pace just shy of a run. My pulse thuds in my temples as I track the man’s trajectory. He disappears around the corner of the building.
It could be nothing, I tell myself.A maintenance worker, a delivery guy, some nurse’s deadbeat boyfriend.
But my gut knows better. It has been trained by years of violence to recognize the energy of a predator closing in on prey.
I reach the side entrance just as the door clicks shut behind him. Through the narrow window, I catch a glimpse of his back disappearing down a corridor. But when I reach for the handle, I find it’s locked.
“Fuck.”
I go around to the front, forcing myself to walk at a normal pace even though every fiber of my being is screaming to sprint. The automatic doors slide open and a wall of air conditioning hits me.
The receptionist looks up from her computer. “Can I help you?”
“I’m supposed to meet my wife,” I lie seamlessly. “Eliana Hunter. She’s here for an appointment.”
Her eyes flick to her screen, fingers tapping at the keyboard. But then a frown takes over her face. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have anyone by that name checked in today.”
