It’s probably just residual from the odd stranger in my store this morning, but I’m not ready to take chances.
Even if it’s just my imagination running wild, I’ve learned to trust my gut when I get a bad feeling.
I might not be able to trust my mind—or my memory—but my instincts have never failed me.
And considering how many hours per day I spend on my own, I know it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Quickening my pace, I change course, making a beeline for the nearest L station.
Hopefully, the flow of the crowd will help me shake off anyone trying to follow me.
And I hope if I take a roundabout path home, I’ll lose them at a stop along the way—if I even have a tail, which feels less and less likely the longer I think about it.
Who would want to follow me?
My creepy customer knows exactly where to find me at the shop, and I definitely don’t see his face among the sea of strangers.
And yet, as I reach the turnstile to step into the station, quickly scanning my card as I go, I can’t shake the feeling of eyes raking over me, raising the hair on the back of my neck.
Stepping into the shadows, I risk one more look behind me—a good one this time.
But the sudden shift in light makes it impossible to distinguish much that might tell me anything of use.
Racing forward, I skip onto the nearest train car and head toward the back, moving through several compartments before I decide I’ve gone far enough.
I choose a spot to stand near the far door, where I can keep the wall at my back while I watch the remaining people who enter behind me. Relief floods me as the train doors finally hiss closed, and I grab onto the pole as we rock forward a moment later.
No one who stepped onto the L after me seems even remotely interested in my presence—all looking at their phones, staring out the window, or resting their heads back against the glass to close their eyes.
Slowly, my heart starts to calm, and I take several deep breaths to steady my nerves.
Maybe I was just being silly.
I know my energy has been off since that first customer of the day.
But even as I chastise myself for letting my fear get the best of me, I don’t mind the extra five minutes I ride the train in the wrong direction—just in case.
I take three more detour stops, switching lines before getting off several blocks too far from home, but it’s the busier station—where I’ll be more likely to lose a tail, if I still have one, while utilizing the protection of a crowd.
By the time I make it onto our street, I’m confident no one is behind me.
At least, every time I turn around to check, the sidewalk is completely empty.
“You’re being ridiculous, Jane,” I scold myself. “Pull yourself together before you get home and freak Jackson out.”
Glancing down at my phone—which I’ve kept in my hand to make dialing 911 easy—I note the time.
Jackson should definitely have arrived home by now, and while I was nervous this morning about letting him walk without me, I’m glad he hasn’t been waiting for me at school all this time. It’s nearly six thirty.
Opening the white gate of our front yard, I step inside, and a fresh wave of relief washes over me as the towering sunflowers that line the fence greet me cheerily.
I’m home, and with that realization, all the anxiety of feeling like someone was watching me is gone.
I lean over the picket fence to check the mail, then head up the path toward the house just as the door flies open.
“Mom, you’re late!” Jackson says, skipping down the porch to take the grocery bag from my arms.
“Sorry, Jay. I had to make a few unexpected stops.” Not entirely a lie, but I don’t want to frighten Jackson unnecessarily by getting into the gritty details of my concern.
