And I can pray that one day, the fighting can stop.
My heart skips a beat as movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye—a flash of brightly colored hair peeking out from a dark pixie cut.
I nearly give myself whiplash, responding to the trick my eyes must be pulling on me.
But I can’t help myself.
It’s instinctual, looking for Stephanie in a crowd—even when I know she’ll only ever be a ghost.
Then my eyes land on the petite figure weaving her way through the crowd.
My pulse quickens, the hair rising along the nape of my neck as a sense of familiarity blasts through me like a speeding bullet.
I know the womancan’tbe Stephanie.
But from this angle, with just the edge of her profile and the back of her head and delicate, curving neck, I swear it has to be her.
She even moves the same way, her brightly colored summer dress swirling around her calves as she strides with purpose,moving effortlessly toward the L despite having to work against the flow of traffic.
“Stephanie?” I call, raising my voice, because I can’t seem to help myself.
Even if I know it’s not her, my heart is hammering against my ribs, my feet carrying me toward her with a sense of purpose that I haven’t known before.
She doesn’t turn or even slow—and then she vanishes through the turnstile and onto the platform as she races to catch the train that just pulled into the station.
3
JANE
I’ve never been more ready to go home.
After that unnerving first customer of the day, I’ve had an impossible time focusing on what I need to get done.
I kept checking over my shoulder, expecting the creepy man to return, but he never did.
And it comes as a massive relief when I look at the time and five o’clock has finally rolled around, which means I can close up and go home.
I do so in record time, glancing behind me as I lower the security door and lock it in place.
Then I make a quick stop at the local market that’s on the way to the subway station to pick up ingredients for a broccoli cheddar bake.
It’s the only sure way I can get Jackson to eat broccoli, and I’m on a mission to give that boy healthy food, even if I have to hide it in his macaroni.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my way again, canvas grocery bag slung over my shoulder.
I’m anxious to get home and make sure Jackson did, indeed, manage to walk home with just his friends for company.
Not that I don’t trust my boy.
It’s the rest of the world that has me wary, and after the day I just had, I’m more than a little on edge.
As I weave through the foot traffic of downtown, I’m grateful for the light fabric of my dress.
Nothing is more stifling than August in Chicago.
Still, a shiver races down my spine as I get the feeling that someone’s watching me.
Glancing surreptitiously around, I try to spot who it might be, but no one looks like they’re even glancing my way. Everyone is focused on their own agenda.
