Page 130 of Split Decision

Then I see the car.

Dark sedan, idling at the curb on the far side of the lot. Not in a space. Just there, engine running, two car-lengths from the back entrance. The windows are tinted so dark that I can't see the occupants.

The same sedan I saw across the street from the gym. Or one that looks exactly like it. I don't move immediately. I watch it. It doesn't move either.

Three minutes.

Then the back entrance opens, and Andi comes out—not the way she came in, and not the way I'd expect, which means Mrs. Alvarez sent her out the back for a reason or Andi made the decision herself. She's moving faster thanher crutches allow, which tells me she saw something inside or knows something I don't.

The sedan's engine changes. Not moving yet. The specific sound of a car gear changing, being put into drive, and is about to move.

I'm out of the truck before I've made a decision.

I cross the lot at a run—not toward Andi, toward the sedan. I’m closer; I can get there first. The driver registers me when I’m ten feet away. The window starts to come down, and I plant myself directly in front of the vehicle, close enough that moving forward means hitting me.

The car stops.

I stand there.

My hands are at my sides. My breathing is controlled—the way Mack taught me, the specific steadiness of someone who is ready and not performing ready. I'm looking at the windshield, at the shape of the driver, and I'm doing the calculation that I've been doing since I was still in the bedroom at two in the morning.

I know what I could do to this car and the person inside it.

I know what that would cost.

I stand still.

"Luke." Andi's voice, behind me. She's made it to the edge of the lot. Not close—she's stayed back, which is right.

The sedan idles.

Thirty seconds.

Then it reverses. Smooth, unhurried, the movement of a professional being pragmatic rather than frightened. It pulls back, turns, and moves down the block without exceeding normal speed.

I watch it go.

I stay where I am until it's out of sight. Then I turn around.

Andi is standing fifteen feet away with the crutches and the expression she has when something has landed, and she's adding it to the map.

"You knew," I say.

"I saw the car when Mrs. Alvarez was walking me to the door," she says. "I sent myself out the back because I wanted to see what it would do." She holds my eyes. "I didn't expect you to be in the lot."

"I didn't leave."

She looks at me for a moment. Something moves through her face—not gratitude exactly, something more complicated. The specific feeling of someone who hasbeen handling things alone for a very long time being handled and not resenting it this time.

"I know," she says. "I know you didn't."

I cross to her.

I don't say anything. I just stand beside her and look at the empty space where the sedan was.

"She escalated," Andi says quietly.

"Yes."