This gets her to laugh.
“And before you ask, yes, I occasionally smoke a joint or take a gummy. But that’s it. No hard drugs.”
“A little pot won’t hurt, as long as it’s not too often.” She finishes typing and looks up at me. “Anything else you want to discuss?”
This is the part I’ve been dreading. “Yeah, when you’re running my blood work, would you mind just adding on a test for any STDs?” I force myself to look Dr. Hernandez in the eye as I fib, “There was this one guy.…”
I’m not going to tell Dr. Hernandez I’ve been with a few men since Paul died. People feel comfortable with the image of a grieving widow; they’re far less generous when someone strays from the confines of that perception.
“Avery, this is a doctor’s office, not a courtroom.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “As long as you’re taking care of yourself, I’m not here to judge.”
Not for the first time, I’m struck by the thought that I could be friends with Dr. Hernandez under other circumstances.
After the physical exam, I check out at the front desk, then step out of her office and walk down the short corridor to the elevator and press the call button. It’s late morning, and though several other medical professionals occupy space on this floor, I’m the only one waiting.
I pull out my phone to check my email, still looking down at my screen when the elevator arrives.
I step inside and press P3, then type a response to a client who wants to switch her appointment time later this week. Just as the doors begin to close, a man’s arm shoots through them, forcing them back open. I hadn’t even noticed him in the narrow hallway.
I tuck my phone back into my purse and step aside to let him choose his floor. He avoids eye contact with me and doesn’t even seem to glance at the button panel. Instead, he merely moves to the far corner.
There’s a 25 percent chance we could have parked on the same level, since the lot only has four. Still, I shift my body so I can see him in my peripheral vision. He’s wearing a suit and tie with an overcoat, but he doesn’t carry a briefcase.
Something is off; he’s staring at me now.
It all happens so quickly that before I can act, the doors close, sealing the two of us together. I mentally kick myself: Like many women, I’ve placed my desire to be polite ahead of my need to protect myself. I should simply have stepped out of the elevator and waited for the next one.
My body prepares for a threat. I edge forward until my hand is by the control panel. If he tries anything, instead of pressing EMERGENCY STOP, which would trap me, I plan to push the buttons for every single floor, as well as the one labeled EMERGENCY CALL.
We reach P3 and the doors slide open. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding.
The man waits to exit until I step out. Many guys do this; it’s considered gentlemanly. Still, I don’t like having him behind me again.
It’s a bright day outside, but the underground lot is dim and shadowy. The parking attendant who’d handed me my ticket on the way in is several stories above us, well out of earshot.
I walk toward my BMW, adrenaline thrumming through my body. In the distance I can see there aren’t any other vehicles parked near mine, so the man should be heading in a different direction. But unless I turn around, it’s impossible to tell. The tapping of my heels on the cement is amplified in the subterranean lot, and I can’t hear any other noises. Right before I reach my car, I steal a look behind me and my pulse explodes.
He’s just a few feet away. He has been keeping pace with me this whole time.
That crisp, expensive-looking suit and his blank gaze—they unnerve me. This man is targeting me; I’m done being polite.
I whip around to face him. “Can I help you?” I ask, aiming for the fiercest tone I can muster.
His voice is so low I can barely make out his words: “Just give us the name.”
He’s from Acelia. They still think I might give Finley up. But I never will. I fumble in my purse for my fob, chastising myself for not having it out earlier, keeping my eyes glued on the man. He could be carrying a gun, its shape concealed by his overcoat.
“You volunteered information. Who told you?”
My hand gropes inside my purse again, feeling my wallet and makeup bag and phone—and, finally, the hard metal edge of the can of Mace attached to my key chain.
“It can be very simple, or you can make it complicated.”
Adrenaline floods my limbs. If he is going to come after me, he’ll do it now. I have a plan for that, too—I’ll blast him in the face with Mace, then hit the alarm button on my fob. I’ll go down fighting; there’s no way I’ll let him abduct me from my own car.