Page 16 of Follow Her Down
Her boss strolls into frame, a walking dobber called Rick.Or Randy.He crowds behind the counter, too close.His hand skims her lower back as he reaches past.
I go still.“That clown’s nae clue whose skin he’s pawing.”
Rick/Randy’s hand lingers.Penny then, Sera now, my Prayer forever, slides away, a tiny shift only a man who studies her like gospel would see.Her shoulders tighten.Her chin ticks toward the door.
I dinnae charge in, cape on.I just mark it in the journal, circling his name above the address I’ve already pulled.Next to his schedule.His drink pattern.The fact he lives alone.
Some problems sort themselves if ye give them time, but I’ll step in if I must.
I stretch, cramped in the van’s belly.The wall by my makeshift desk is a shrine—photos from a distance, screenshots from socials before she scrubbed them, a lock of blonde hair—nae the black dye—pinched off her pillow in Kansas City right before she bolted.
My notebook sits open, full of her rhythms:
Coffee at 3:42 p.m.before shift
Break at 7:15, sits out the back and smokes
Checks over right shoulder more than left
Touches throat when she lies
Locks the car twice—bleep-bleep
Whispers to herself when alone
“I want her alone,” I murmur, finger on the fresh entry.“Unguarded when she sees it.”
In the corner, a wee box sits wrapped in brown paper.No pretty bows just yet.It cost me hours to procure, and it’s nearly right.
I heft it, weigh it.Inside’s the first message.The first real one anyway.
It speaks our shared tongue: rage and violence.I heard it in her posts.Felt it thick in the air of her Kansas City house, the way it rotted and festered the rooms from the inside.Five years she never crossed the threshold.Then one day she walked out with a duffel and her keys, a perfect storm with legs.
I’ve nae been that buzzing in my life.
I peel the paper back, check the gift one last time.Everything perfect.Everything in place
I rewrap the package, securing it with twine.
On the live feed, Sera’s shrugging into her coat, right on schedule.
I touch the pixel glow of her face.
“I’ll leave it where ye’ll find it,” I whisper.“And when ye open it, ye’ll ken ye were never unloved.”
I turn the key.Engine rumbles.Soon, she’ll see there’s someone who sees her.Someone who kens what justice means in the real world.
Prayer doesnae need saving.She needs someone who’ll help her burn it all down.
And I’m already on fire.
7
Eddie
Coffee.That’sallIneed.Just enough caffeine to get me home without driving into a ditch.
The bell over the Gas N’ Go door jingles, and that’s when I see her.Not behind the counter, but standing in the snack aisle, methodically restocking chips.Black hair falling past her shoulders like a curtain.Curves that don’t fit this city’s idea of beauty.There’s something oddly graceful about her movements, like she’s half underwater, existing in a different current than the rest of us.
