Page 25 of The Thinnest Air
Twenty-Seven Months Ago
“There’s something on your windshield.” Allison points at my car as we walk out of hot yoga on a brisk Monday morning. All I want is a lukewarm shower, clean clothes that don’t stick to every crevice of my body, and an iced coffee with Splenda and sugar-free mocha syrup.
“It’s probably one of those flyers for that new pizza place on Pike,” I say. “Last week I got four of them.”
I yank the white paper from beneath my wiper blade, but I don’t crumple it yet. There’s no pizza logo. Nothing on the outside. Just a white sheet of paper folded into thirds.
Something falls, landing at my shoes, and I swipe it off the ground, finding myself face-to-face with a photo of myself taken just last week. I’m with Andrew, leaving the home of one of his colleagues after a dinner party that ran much too late. This had to have been two in the morning.
“What is it?” Allison comes around the front of my car, peering over my shoulder as I read a handwritten letter.
My Meredith,
Always watching.
X
“Holy shit, that’s creepy.” Allison covers her chest with an open palm, mouth agape.
My hands tremble. “What do I do? Do I take it to the police? I mean, it’s not a threat, but it’s ... I don’t know ... it feels violating. Who the hell takes a picture of me leaving a party with my husband in the middle of the night? Who is this asshole? And how does he know us?”
“Just some lunatic,” she says. “Some weirdos get off on this stuff. They do it just for fun. But yes, you should go to the police. This needs to be on record ... in case anything happens.”
My eyes scan the letter again, tracing the small, careful handwriting, noting how he dotted his I’s with little circles and that his capital letters are enormous in comparison to their lowercase counterparts.
“Will you go with me?” I ask, an unsettled queasiness resting in my stomach. I’m still so unknown around Glacier Park, and my circle consists of mainly Andrew and Allison. For some crazy person to notice me and follow me ... it’s bone-chilling to say the least.
“Of course. Want me to drive you? You’re all shaken up.” Allison places her arm around my shoulder, leading me to her parked Audi and helping me in.
Five minutes later, we pull in to the visitor parking lot of the Glacier Park Police Department. Allison leads me inside and does most of the talking once we reach the front desk. We’re not seated for more than ten minutes before a detective calls for us.
“Meredith Price?” he asks, his eyes moving between Allison and myself.
I lift a hand, rising. “I’m Meredith.”
“Detective Ronan McCormack.” His eyes linger on mine. “Come on back.”
He leads us down a sterile white hallway covered in posed photos of retired captains, sergeants, and lieutenants. His office is at the end, across from the chief’s corner digs.
“Have a seat, ladies.” He closes the door behind us. Neither of us speak. “What are we looking at here?”
Retrieving the letter and photograph from my purse, I slide them across the desk. “This was on my windshield this morning.”
His face tenses as he reads the words and checks out the photo. “Is this the first time this person has tried to contact you?”
“Yes,” I say. “But this picture was from last week. And he knows my name. And the way he signs it? Always watching?”
“And he called her ‘My Meredith,’” Allison says.
“That’s a fear tactic,” he says, his eyes dancing between ours. “Most stalkers, they want their victims to be afraid. Sometimes they’ll use possessive phrasing to accomplish that. Can you think of anyone who might want to scare you, Meredith?”
My name is sweet and gentle on his tongue, and he has kind eyes.
I shake my head. “No one. I get along with everyone.”
“Except your husband’s ex,” Allison says, her voice soft as she nudges me.
“Erica wouldn’t do this. She’s crazy, but she’s not this kind of crazy,” I say. “Plus, I know her handwriting. This isn’t it.”
