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“That’ll be twenty-three pounds ninety-nine.”
“What?” I turned back to the cashier. “Right.” I handed over thirty pounds.
“Baxter? Are you still there?”
It was strange how you could forget someone was on the phone when you had it pressed to your ear. “Yeah. Sorry. Something odd happened.”
“What?”
I took my change and the bagged underwear, weighing my options. Was I really going to tell Lake that someone had thought something hateful, and in a moment of pure paranoia, I’d decided they’d aimed it at me? He’d ask who, and I wouldn’t have an answer for him. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I think I just need more sleep.” I headed for the lift that would take me to the ground floor.
“Speaking of tonight…” Lake continued. “Verity wanted me to have dinner with her and her husband. But I told her we kind of had plans.”
I stopped dead, nearly causing an elderly man to walk into me. He tutted and muttered something about young people and manners. I was pretty sure he also said something about spanking, and not in a good way. “Do not cancel plans with your sister for me, or she’ll definitely hate me.”
“I was looking forward to seeing you.”
“And me, you. But we can see each other tomorrow night and keep your sister happy.”
“What will you do?”
“Get a pizza. Watch a film. Have an early night.”
“You won’t go out?”
I smiled, then felt bad about it. “No, Lake. I won’t go out. I don’t need any of that anymore.” I didn’t add I’ve got you, but I suspected he heard it, anyway.
“If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure. There’s something to be said for giving each other time to miss each other, right?”
“I already miss you.”
I stepped outside just in time to see the bus pull away. That left waiting for the next one, forking out for a cab, or walking. I walked. If I followed the route, maybe one would pass me and I could jump on. “You’re too damn sweet.”
“I can fix that.”
“How?”
“Did you know Charles Dickens was afraid of trains? He’d just returned from France when—”
“Of course it was France.”
“That part isn’t relevant. Anyway, his train derailed over a bridge. He survived, but other carriages plunged ten feet into the river. Ten people died.”
“Cheery story.”
“Thomas Carlyle, Queen Victoria, and Oscar Wilde also disliked train travel.”
I suspected he’d go on all day if I let him. I made a loud static noise. “I’m under a bridge. You’re breaking up.”
“What bridge?”
“Bye, Lake.”
“Bye Baxter.”
No buses came for the next twenty minutes. Which was both a good and a bad thing. Good because if I’d waited at the stop, it would have been a waste of time. Bad because once I was halfway home, I might as well finish the walk. Decision made, I took a shortcut that veered off the bus route and into quieter streets.
The feeling of being watched crept up on me ten minutes from home. It was strong enough that I spun around to scan the street. Nothing. Just like the reflection. Just like the hateful thought.
The three things so close together bothered me, though. Enough that I picked up my pace and glanced back over my shoulder more than once. Was someone following me? And if they were… why?
