“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said gently, easing upright and taking a half step back, his hands raised. “You don’t need to apologize. You don’t owe me anything.”
“But the Bloody Mary—”
“Was more than covered by your tip,” he said, keeping a comfortable distance between us. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay to drive home. I can call you a cab,” he added, making it clear this wasn’t a come-on, “if you need a lift.”
“Thanks. I’m okay.” I pressed my lips shut to keep myself from babbling and saying too much. I was far from okay. There was an unconscious pervert stuffed in the back of my minivan and an IOU in my purse from the woman who wanted me to kill him. And I was going to be late to pick up my kids from my sister’s house, which meant she was going to start looking for me. Ithumbed my cell phone awake, surprised Georgia wasn’t already blowing it up.
“Can I see your phone?” Julian asked. I handed it over to him. There was something so disarming about him. About the softness of his voice and the earnest concern in his eyes. He opened my contacts and programmed his number. “Just in case you need it,” he said, returning it to me and tucking his hands in his pockets. “Or… you know… in case you change your mind about going out with me sometime.”
He backed away from my van, his narrow waist silhouetted by the streetlight behind him. He cut a nice shape against the darkening sky, and a not-so-small part of me wished I had stayed to hang out with him at the bar earlier, even if I was too old for him.
“I have kids,” I called across the parking lot. “Two of them.”
His smile caught the lamplight. “I’ve got nothing against minivans.”
I fought back a surprised laugh as I watched him go. What the hell was happening, and how was this my life? I climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at his number. If I made it through the night without being arrested by the highway patrol—or worse, by my sister—maybe I’d call him sometime.
With a heavy sigh, I pulled the crumpled note from my purse and dialed Patricia’s number. Listening to the ring through my Bluetooth, I pulled into traffic heading in the vague direction of the Micklers’ home. Finally, Patricia answered.
“Is it done?”
“Are you home?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Thank god.” I reached into the center console for a pack ofgum. I smelled like a distillery. “Your husband tried to drug some woman at a bar. I… He accidentally drugged himself instead. I have him and I’m bringing him home,” I said, feeling oddly connected to this woman I hardly knew. And far too familiar with her husband. I merged into the far-right lane, staying under the posted speed limit.
“No! You can’t bring him here!” Her objections rose to a fevered pitch. “You have to get rid of him. I’m not paying you unless you get rid of him like you said… neat!”
“I never said I would do anything. You overheard a conversation you didn’t understand.” An Audi cut me off as it darted to make the ramp to the toll road. I leaned into the horn, adrenaline pumping as I checked my rearview mirror for flashing lights, relieved to find none. “Look, just because he’s an asshole and a creep doesn’t mean he deserves to—”
“Do you have his phone?” Patricia asked.
Her question pulled me up short. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I knew Harris had his wallet. Last I’d seen his phone, he was tucking it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I think so. Why?”
“Find it. His password ismilkman. Go to his photos. Then call me when it’s done.”
“I don’t want to see his—”
The line disconnected. I smacked the steering wheel, uttering a swear. What was I supposed to do now? Clearly, Patricia wasn’t going to open the door if I showed up at her home. With my luck, a neighbor would see me dump him in his yard and report my license tag number.
Crap.This night kept getting better and better.
I pulled off the toll road into a corporate center parking lot and put the van in park. Lifting my armrest, I climbed into the back ofthe van, trying not to impale Harris Mickler with my heels.The state would like to present Exhibit A for the prosecution, the defendant’s right Louis Vuitton knockoff, also known as the murder weapon, Your Honor.I choked out a laugh, wondering how Julian would defend me from that as I squeezed into the space between my children’s car seats and fished around in Harris’s jacket pocket for his phone. The screen was locked. I cringed as I typed in his password.
My finger hovered over the icon for his photos. Knowing what I knew of Harris Mickler, what awaited in that app at best would not be pleasant, and at worst could be potentially scarring. Or at least vomit-inducing. Against my better judgment, I tapped it anyway. A handful of files with the usual titles: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Screenshots, Camera… Private.
Peeking through one eye, I tapped the last one, surprised when it wasn’t a collection of really gross porn. Instead, I found a collection of numbered folders. Thirteen of them. All labeled with names:SARAH, LORNA, JENNIFER, AIMEE, MARA, JEANETTE…
I opened the first folder and scrolled through the contents, slowly at first, pulling the screen closer to make sense of the images as Harris snored shallowly beside me. As far as I could tell, it was a series of candid shots of a woman, captured from odd angles, as if they’d been surreptitiously taken. A blond woman in line at a coffee shop. The same woman getting into her car. Another shot of her pushing a grocery cart through a parking lot, this one revealing a clear shot of her face. I recognized her. She was the same woman I’d just doused with tomato juice in the bar.
Harris Mickler was a stalker.
If it was just the once, maybe I would understand, but there have been others. So many others.
