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I park a little ways down the road and check my map before firing off a text to Emmy, telling her I’m making a snap delivery to this address.
At least if I go missing, she’ll have my last known location.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, glancing in the rearview mirror. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Maybe so, but that doesn’t explain why my throat is so tight or why my chest feels like it’s about to explode. This is shady business and I’m right smack dab in the middle of it.
The men move slowly, gathering up a couple boxes and carrying them into the laundromat. When they reappear a few minutes later with their hands free, they climb back in the SUV and drive away without lingering.
I pretend I’m getting something off the passenger seat as they pass by, just in case they look through the window and see my face. It’s a struggle not to duck down in the seat.
I’ve never wanted to hide more in my life.
Dexter can think what he likes, but I’m not stupid. The van looks old and boring, and with my hair tied up and shades on, so am I.
Once the SUV disappears and my heart sinks back in my chest, I climb out and head for the laundromat door.
My skin tingles like I’m being watched. It’s like I’ve forgotten how normal people move.
I’m all jerky and wide-eyed, looking around too much.
Keep it together, Junie.
I cram my hands in my pockets and hunch my shoulders, taking up as little space as possible. Whenever anyone meets my gaze, I look down at the ground.
Don’t make eye contact.
Don’t attract attention.
Then I’m inside.
It’s about what you’d expect. A few of the machines whirr noisily, their big drums spinning and vibrating. An old lady waits by the window with a pile of reusable bags beside her. She doesn’t even notice me.
Right.
To them, I’m just another random face, coming in to collect my nonexistent laundry.
I angle my body so no one can see what I’m doing and pull out a disc from my pocket. The only one Dexter missed.
I wipe off a few crumbs and look at the number.45826.
Lovely. That’s not much to go on.
I don’t start panicking until I look up and see the big tags with numbers on the machines. Five digits, just like what’s on the metal plate.
And there, in the corner, with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to it, is the washer that matches the number in my hand.
No coincidence.
It’s clever, really. No one here cares enough to look too closely at a busted machine.
The old lady’s laundry finishes and she starts hauling her clothes out of the washer into her bag. Her back is turned and I see my moment.
I’m not built for this.
The movies always portray this sort of thing as fun and adventurous. Scary, sure, but in an adrenaline-coursing heroic way.
They don’t show how your entire body turns to stone with real fear.
