Page 22 of Soft Tissue Damage
Tears prickle my eyes. “Thank you,” I manage in a choked whisper.
“Keep talking to me. Don’t hang up the phone.”
Wild horses couldn’t make me let go of this lifeline. “There are two men walking toward me. They’re smiling at me, but they’re not nice smiles.”
“Walk away from them. It doesn’t matter in which direction. Somewhere well lit. I’ll find you.”
I do as he says, walking quickly up a residential street away from the men. “Why did you askis Elena in Fentonlike it’s a bad thing?”
“Everything’s going to be okay. I’m coming as fast as I can. Just keep talking to me.” He sounds calm and reassuring, which makes me wonder if I’m in horrible danger.
“Mr. Grant, maybe I should call the police.”
“No,” he says sharply. “Do not hang up the phone. And those men cannot hear you talking to the cops.”
I take a shaky breath. “All right.”
“You have location sharing turned on, and I can seewhere you are on Leon’s phone. I can get you back to the subway station. You’re going to take the next left. Are you wearing high heels?”
He must be able to hear them clicking on the sidewalk. “Yes.”
“Is there any Mace in your purse?”
“Um, no.”
The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. I’m wearing high heels, and I have no self-protection. Mr. Grant must think I’m naïve. Several times over the past few years I’ve thought that I should carry something for self-defense, but I’ve never gotten around to buying anything. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I’m so sorry, I’m ruining your evening.”
“You’re not ruining anything, Elena. Just keep walking and talking to me.”
“I don’t really know what to say. I feel so stupid right now.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing special. I was going to meet my friend at her new apartment. I bought her a fern as a gift.”
“That sounds fun, Elena.”
I like the way he says my name. I have a vague idea it’s what 911 dispatchers and emergency workers do to keep a terrified person grounded.
“My aunts won’t think so. They’ll be angry I missed Mass tonight.”
“We can’t always be good boys and girls. Are you still being followed?”
I glance over my shoulder, and I see that the two men are only a few yards behind me. My voice rises in panic. “Are you far away, Mr. Grant?”
“I’m not far.”
“Where?”
He hesitates. “Kinsey Bridge.”
My heart sinks. Kinsey Bridge is three miles away, and the traffic going over it is notorious.
“You’re going to get back to the subway station, go down the stairs, and wait for me by the turnstiles. There will be lots of people around. You’ll be safe.”
“Hey, bitch. Who are you talking to?” one of the men behind me calls out.
