I didn’t realize I’d screwed up until the white van stopped fifty feet in front of me. I’d been so distracted I hadn’t even noticed it passing by.
Suddenly I had no idea where I was. The street was deserted, just one oversize beige brick building to my right. The other side was lined with a fence protecting an abandoned lot. The only cars were on the cross street. It felt like they were miles away.
I instinctively reached for my pepper spray in my back pocket, then realized I’d left it at home along with my common sense. I knew better than to go down a street not teeming with people.
I envisioned the worst-case scenario. A man jumping out of the van. Dragging me kicking and screaming while his co-conspirator waited to drive off. The vision stopped there but only because it was always where the TV shows and movies cut to black. I braced myself, ready. But what happened next felt much, much worse.
Nothing.
The van just idled, the car engine a gentle hum. No one got out.
I stopped, not sure what to do. The police station wasn’t within yelling distance, but it was close. Just not close enough. I could keep going, hoping I could run past the van to the precinct a mere tenth of a mile away. Or I could turn, go back the way I’d foolishly come. It was farther, but at least they’d have to give chase.
The van was white. New York plates. I stared at the Ford logo on the back as I made my decision. I’d go back. Make them work for it. But first, I’d take a pic. My hands shook as I struggled to open the camera app.
“Hey!”
Startled, I dropped my cell. The voice was male and didn’t indicate friend or foe. I needed to call 911. I bent down to pick up my phone.
“Where you think you’re going, girl?”
There was an accent, but I couldn’t tell from where. A shadow joined the voice. It got bigger and bigger as I finally grabbed my cell, my mind no longer on calling for help and instead on just getting the hell out of there. I instinctively headed into the street, my feet moving at what would be 6.7 on a treadmill. It was what I did whenever I had to walk alone at night. The open road safer than any sidewalk. It was easier to see car headlights than people lurking in shadows.
I was almost midway onto the black pavement when the voice spoke again. “Lena! Aren’t you heading to the precinct? You’re going the wrong way.”
Stuart.
I stopped. Fifty feet ahead, the van still lingered, but I felt better. Safer. I tore my eyes away to look at Stuart, smiling at me. My fear must’ve shown because he stopped a few feet away. “I scared you. It was my horrible fake accent, wasn’t it?”
I shook my head but couldn’t get words out. Not yet. Noticing, he got serious. “No, I did. Crap. I’m sorry. I keep screwing up. Didn’t think of the optics. I was just so happy to see you. But you’re alone. And I ran up on you.”
“No, it wasn’t you,” I lied as I nodded in the direction of the van that still hadn’t moved.
Stuart glanced at it before turning back to me. “Oh, the kidnap van.” He gently took my shoulder, led me back toward the sidewalk. His hand felt warm, safe. “I can see why that would freak you out. There’s probably some guy in there wanting you to put the lotion in the basket.”
I just stared at him. He shook his head, mock disappointment on his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Silence of the Lambs.”
We walked past the van. Inside was a white guy, shaggy blond hair covering half the phone next to his ear. He spoke animatedly, so involved in his conversation he didn’t even look in our direction. He had to be lost. My gram used to say lost white people were like sharks. Just as afraid of us as we were of them.
I felt silly. I turned to Stuart. “I have never seen Silence of the Lambs.”
“We need to rectify that. Immediately.”
“We?” I said, just to clarify he was implying what I thought.
“We. Believe the Webster’s Dictionary definition would be you and me. We. Watching the movie. While eating food.”
I still needed clarification. “Food you cooked?”
“That depends. You prefer your food to be edible?”
So he was flirting. My first inclination was to do what I always did. Change the subject. But he was nice and he was smart and he was definitely cute. There was no way I could even think about wasting time watching some movie about lotion until I knew exactly what had happened to Desiree. But maybe down the road. I liked that he already knew I’d had a sister.
I finally responded. “Sometimes. I eat eggplant, and that’s barely edible.”
“Great. I’ll make eggplant. Pair it with some brussels sprouts.”
“And bologna.”
“I actually like bologna.”
“What have you been up to?” I finally changed the subject, thought about there not being an article in today’s paper.
“I actually got some good news that’s been keeping me busy.”
I didn’t say anything more because we’d gotten to the end of the block, and the 44th Precinct was to our right, a massive two-story square covered in dirty red brick. Raised subway tracks served as a backdrop while a collection of white NYPD vans created their own parking spaces on the sidewalk. The ground sloped down so we had to lean back slightly as we made our way to the door.
Stuart noticed me eyeing it as we stopped at the entrance. “First time here?”
“And hopefully last,” I said. “I have to pick up Desiree’s stuff.”
He nodded as if he understood what that meant, then was kind enough to try to keep things light. “Inside’s not what you might expect. Nowhere near as fancy as some station you’d see on TV.”
I nodded, though I had no expectations for the décor. Just like I had no expectations that anyone inside would help me. Especially not Green or Zizza. I turned to Stuart. Considered telling him what I’d discovered.
He smiled. “You know, I really would like to take you to dinner.”
If I told him everything I’d learned, he’d help me make sense of it all. He’d just have to promise not to publish anything. At least until we figured it all out. “To celebrate your good news?” I said.
“A publisher wants me to write a book.”
That tore me out of my own thoughts. I smiled, genuinely happy for him. “Dream unlocked. Amazing news.”
“I’d like to think so. They want me to write about Desiree.”
I don’t know why that shocked me so much, but it did. “Like a true-crime book?” Suddenly I felt hopeful. “You think something happened to her when she died?”
But he just shook his head. “More like a biography.”
I took my time responding, just scratched my wrist. He didn’t rush to fill the empty space. “What about her life? I know they’re not going to pay you just to focus on her hopes and dreams. Does Mel know?”
He stepped back. “I can practically see the smoke about to come out of your ears, but it doesn’t have to be like that. People want to know about your sister, your family—especially now. And if I say no, they’ll get someone else. Talk to me. Help me share the real Desiree. The sister who got your favorite singer to write you a love note back.”