Page 12 of Faded Rhythm

The woman who’s driving?

No longer my target.

She just became my charge.

6

Sable

The drive is quiet.

Uncomfortably quiet.

I have a mind to turn on the radio, but I don’t think my still trembling fingers will cooperate.

King—not his real name, I’m sure—sits beside me in the passenger seat, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. He’s too big for this little SUV; I can’t help but notice the way his knees brush the glove box, one boot wedged against the door. His eyes are on the road ahead, but I can feel his awareness stretching beyond it, like he’s scanning and analyzing every inch of the world around us even though his eyes aren’t moving.

He put his gun in my glove box when he first got in, something I appreciate while being acutely aware of its awful presence.

The silence stretches on until he finally breaks it.

“What are their names?”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about my daughters. I grip the steering wheel tighter, my fingers going cold.

“Rae and Kelice,” I say quietly, feeling as though I’ve betrayed them somehow.

He nods once. “They seem like good kids.”

I stiffen. He said it so calmly, so sure.Toosure.

“You’ve been watching them,” I say. It’s not a question.

But he nods again. No apology or explanation. “I was watching you,” he says. “I happened to see them in the process.”

That doesn’t make me feel better.

I focus on the road, my jaw tight, my chest getting that tight feeling again. Panic. Panic at the thought of my babies being watched without me knowing. My stomach twists again, and I almost pull over.

I don’t even post them on social media. Brett does, because you can’t project the image of a loving family man without the family. But I never do.

“I understand you feeling uneasy. This is a strange situation.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mutter, injecting a little sarcasm to mask my growing panic.

Another beat of silence passes. His presence is so…dense. It’s like driving with a hurricane in the passenger seat.

I stop at a red light and glance over at him. He’s looking out the window now, expression unreadable.

“Do you have kids?” I ask.

His answer is a clipped, “No.”

I wait for more. None comes.

“Family?” I press. “Around here?”

He finally turns his head toward me, his expression hard. “I don’t talk about my life.”

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