Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82480 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Her purse was three feet farther over, and she picked it up by one of its handles. The thing was in tatters, so ripped apart that she could see through it in places. Something had been used to destroy the fake leather—a knife… maybe a pair of utility scissors?—and a piercing sensation went through her chest. Sure, the bag had been cheap to begin with, another knockoff that was pleather rather than anything remotely cowhide. But it had been hers, and she’d bought it only a month ago in JCPenney—
Anne grimaced. What was that smell?
The whiff of urine made her jerk the thing away—and that was when she saw her wallet over by the bushes. Like the purse, it had been torn apart, the cash taken, the change purse emptied. She handled it with her thumb and forefinger and got a nose-full of the same stink that was on her purse.
Her credit card and her ID were out of their slots.
Making a sweep of the area, she collected what else had been hers: the soft container of Kleenex that was damp, her mini-hairbrush… a couple of receipts that were soaked, fortunately just by the dew on the grass.
The muffled sound of his dog barking again jerked her head up.
She’d never gotten along with that animal. It hadn’t liked her from the get-go and clearly that was among the first warning signs for the whole relationship. She should have followed her instincts instead of wasting eight months of her life to confirm what she’d guessed pretty much on their second date—
“I got this grocery bag here.”
She wheeled around. The stubby, cranky, tufty car driver was standing in the breezeway, holding out a paper bag with the Grand Union logo on it. In the harsh lighting, he looked like a J. R. R. Tolkien troll who’d turned into an unexpected protagonist.
“Put your stuff in here,” he said as he stepped onto the lawn. “And then let’s get you to a dry place. You look a mess.”
“Thank you.”
Meeting him halfway, she disappeared her purse and her wallet into the folds of the bag, and then flinched as the driver laid his hand on her good shoulder.
“I’ll take ya home. Unless you wanna talk to him?”
“How do you know it’s a man,” she mumbled.
“You sayin’ it ain’t?”
Looking at the stairs, she shook her head. “The talking part didn’t go well the first time tonight. I don’t think a second try will improve things.”
“Come on then.”
Memories of the argument eclipsed the world around her, and the next thing she knew, she was back in the maroon sedan and giving directions to her house. She was impressed she knew the way. She felt as though her mind were misfiring, an old jalopy that needed not just a tune-up, but a replacement engine.
She’d never felt so alone.
But better than in bad company.
* * *
Darius followed the maroon car all the way to Anne’s house.
He kept up with its progression in distances of a quarter mile, dematerializing and re-forming on the roofs of mini-malls and stores—even a box van parked in a metered spot. In all instances, he stayed out of the way of headlights, streetlamps, and any kind of security lights. He was of the night, traveling through the damp May air, a ghost who lived and breathed.
When the car finally stopped in front of a little house on a street of little houses, he perched behind the chimney of the Cape Cod across the street, his breathing even and slow, but his body tense.
As Anne emerged from the backseat, he approved of the fact that the stocky driver got out from behind the wheel and walked her to her door. On her front stoop, they shared words that did not carry all the way up to him, but going by the way her head lowered and she held that paper bag of her things in tight hands, she seemed both resolute and exhausted.
The driver waited until she was safely inside, the red-painted door shut tight, a light flaring, soft and yellow, inside.
The man who had been such a grudging help hesitated as if he were worried about her. Then he shoved his hands in the front pockets of his pants and stomped off, his perma-frown back in place, that not-half-bad heart clearly heavy under all the gruffness.
After the car took off, Darius stayed where he was. Anne was moving around her home, other lights coming on behind the privacy curtains. The fact that no one could see inside was a good thing. He didn’t like the idea of her being both undefended and highly visible.
Although undefended and not highly visible wasn’t much better.
It was hard to leave. But he had a job to do.
The return trip to that development of apartment buildings was the work of a moment as he had no reason to take the dematerialization in stages. Resuming his corporeality on the lawn where she’d picked up her stuff, he looked back at his car on the far side of the road—and promptly forgot about the BMW he’d loved so much for such a short time.