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“Got a body that needs burying?”
I smiled despite my nerves. “With your puny arms? Please. I’d call Lloyd for that.”
“Hey, I devote serious time to these biceps. Want to insult my calves, go for it.”
Traffic opened up a bit, and I pressed the accelerator a bit. “I’m probably being paranoid, but I think someone’s following me.”
“Where are you?” The laughter was gone from Rick’s voice.
“Umm... Martin Street, by that Chipotle. He’s been behind me about ten minutes.”
“Come to our house. Lance is home now. I’ll have him grab the Hummer and hem him in.”
Hem him in? The idea sounded reckless. I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “Maybe I should just drive to a police station.”
“And the minute you turn in, he’ll drive away and we won’t know anything about him.” I heard muffled talking, his hand probably held over the receiver. “Lance is getting the H1 now.”
I could hear the excitement in his voice, the increased pitch as he called out something. I told him so, and he let out a long puff of air.
“I am not, in any way shape or form, excited by the prospect of kicking some creep’s ass.” He spoke the words in a dead monotone. “I promise,” he added.
“Whatever. Just don’t be stupid about it.”
“I’m going to open the garage door and move my Benz. Just pull in and go in the house. We’ll handle the guy.”
We’ll handle the guy… With someone else, I would have been afraid. But Rick and Lance had managed to survive situations a hundred times hairier than this. Still, he sounded too cocky to be safe and too confident to be cautious. I turned into the entrance of his neighborhood and started to second-guess my decision.
“I don’t know…”
“STOP worrying. And drive normally. I don’t want him to suspect anything.”
“I just pulled into your neighborhood. Please be careful.”
I turned down his road, noticed the black grill of Lance’s H1 idling on a side street, and pressed the gas a little bit harder, passing their neighborhood’s 23 MPH speed limit sign like a badass doing thirty.
Rick and Lance lived in one of those neighborhoods that didn’t quite know its place. It was a cluster of overpriced mansions built during the real estate heyday, back when ordinary people got loans on million-dollar mansions they couldn’t afford, then defaulted nine months later. Half the houses had overgrown lawns and For Sale signs in the yard. Their house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac and was a three-story frat house, disguised in respectability and brick. From the street, you couldn’t see the six-car garage that stretched along its back, nor the pool with the grotto waterfall and Slip ’N Slide.
I didn’t know the rules of following someone, but I assumed this guy’s vehicle had a navigation system, one that would tell him, as I approached Rick’s house, that it was a dead-end. I approached the cul-de-sac and Rick’s Mercedes SUV rolled across the width of the turn-off road, the door opening as I passed. He lifted a hand to me and I focused on his driveway, hitting it at a brisk ten miles per hour and pulling around to the back, the last garage door open and waiting for me.
I pulled in, jerked the car into park and turned off the key. I cracked open my door and waited for the sounds of disaster.
Seven
My engine had no concept of danger. It ticked as it cooled, and when I pushed the car door open, it creaked. I crept out of the car and around its hood, moving carefully down the long garage, past the vintage Mustang, the Range Rover, jet skis, and motorcycles. I tried the door to the house, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.
The interior smelled like pizza and Pledge. The television in the living room was on, and I moved through the kitchen and to the front windows. Light streamed through the open curtains, and I sidled up to them and peeked out.
The Tahoe was parked at an angle, too far away for me to see or hear anything. I saw a blob of person move, and they could have been a sumo wrestler or a six-year-old kid. I gave up my attempt to hide behind the window and just pressed my face to the glass, cupping my hands to shield the sun.
Nope. Still couldn’t see anything. I hesitated, then moved to the front door. I gave myself a moment to consider the first option—staying inside like a good little girl. I tossed that to the side and turned the knob, stepping outside and into the situation.
It turns out that the “situation” was waaaay back where Rick had parked his Mercedes. That was where the Tahoe had gotten wise of the situation, attempted to turn around, and got stopped by the front bumper of Lance’s Hummer. I headed toward their cars and made it two houses down before my feet started sweating in my heels. Another house further, I decided to pull them off and go barefoot. Another six steps and I realized the sidewalk was hotter than a skillet. I hopped to the side and put them back on. I continued, sweating through my sundress, and was practically wheezing by the time I approached the confrontation, one that had both of my boys out in the middle of the street, arms folded across their chests, a scrawny little white-haired guy between them. My fear took a nose-dive. This was the guy following me?
