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He hesitates, clearly unsure whether he’s supposed to question me or push back. And it’s obvious that he’d rather get back to the house and sorting perfectly starched shirts.

I give him the look that has intimidated prosecutors, opposing counsel, and more than one senior partner.

“Unless Vasily specifically told you I’m not allowed to go to a pharmacy after having to see a doctor urgently.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Great. Then let’s turn around, please.”

He does, with a deep, patient breath and what looks like a prayer murmured in the middle of a U-turn.

* * *

I walk inside the pharmacy alone. I’m not here for a prescription; I’m here for privacy.

And a burner phone. Crazy, since I’ve worked with so many clients who have had them for one reason or another. Easy to discard, hard to track, and practically a guilty plea for most people. Cheating husbands, drug runners, and johns use burner phones.

I find the prepaid phones near the registers, grab the cheapest one that looks functional, and pay cash. The cashier barely looks at me.

Perfect.

Back in the SUV, I tuck the burner phone into my purse and stare out the window. What the hell am I going to do?

For the first time in my life, I have no idea what comes next.

Instead of being afraid of that, I smile. And then try to suppress it quickly by pressing my lips together.

Jeff’s hands are shaking. I notice it because he keeps flexing his fingers around the steering wheel, tightening and loosening his grip as we leave the pharmacy behind.

“You’re going to get us into a crash,” I say, frowning. “It’s not that big of a deal. We’ve barely been gone an hour.”

He glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing; just get us back in one piece, please.”

He nods, but his hands don’t steady. In fact, he glances in the rearview mirror, but beyond me.

I turn toward the rear window.

Another SUV is behind us.

At first, I barely register it. We’re on a quiet road driving through the Adirondacks, and there’s nothing unusual about another vehicle heading in the same direction. Especially this one, older, rusted around the corners, a deep red with mud on the tires.

Then it stays with us when we turn onto a wide road that leads to expensive estate properties and subdivisions.

We turn again.

It follows.

Jeff slows down, putting on his blinker to pull to the side and let them pass, but they don’t.

I take a fast, deep breath, one hand wrapped tightly around my seatbelt.

“Don’t panic,” I tell Jeff.

“I’m not panicking.”