The crowd’s interest in her dies down and the volume rises as the conversations around us resume.
I swivel just slightly in her direction so I can watch her a little more easily.
She notices I’ve turned and she follows suit. “The first time you showed up at the club was Monday before last at six seventeen p.m. You wore a light-blue tennis skirt and white sleeveless top. Hair pulled back. You ordered a vodka cranberry. The next night you got here at five forty-five p.m. wearing a floral shift dress. You had two glasses of Chardonnay.” She’s pointing the plastic drink stirrer at me while she rattles off the exact arrival time of each visit I’ve made here, including what I ate, drank, and wore, her volume increasing as she goes. “And every night, your midnight blue Lexus SUV follows me home.” She even recites the license plate number.
I’m glancing around the room, noticing we’ve attracted an audience again. My shadow in the back corner is openly staring at us. The only other time I have been confronted like this was by another drunk woman, Jenny Kingston. Images of her lying on the floor, blood pooling around her head, flood my memories, along with the question my boss asked me after: What would you have done if she hadn’t fallen on her own? It’s a question that has haunted me for eight years.
I have to try to salvage this situation. “I’m new to town and this seemed like the best place to meet people.”
“I get it,” she says. “I know they want it back, but we both know I’m dead if I turn it over.”
I glance around the bar, looking for any cameras or mics so I can determine just how much Mr. Smith will hear about what went down tonight between us. There’s nothing obvious, but I can’t rule it out so I keep up the charade.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but if you need help, I can—”
“You’re not here to help me. No one can help me. But I had no choice. I’d already be dead if I didn’t take it.” She doesn’t give me time to respond but instead says, “Just go away already,” before settling back into her cocktail.
I stay at the bar long enough to finish my wine and close out my tab, then I slide off the stool and walk out of the bar.
Once I’m in my car, I drive on autopilot to the small apartment that was set up for me. There’s no doubt Mr. Smith has already heard about the scene we made in the bar. I don’t think what happened tonight would be enough for him to pull me out, but he’ll be watching closer than ever now.
* * *
It’s three days before I make my next move. I’m hiding across the street from her house, awaiting her arrival home. The second set of instructions came the morning after Amy confronted me at the country club. I was right. Mr. Smith was not happy with me.
Timetable moved up due to your inability to follow simple directions. Use whatever means necessary to locate and retrieve any digital device including cell phone, computers, tablets, hard drives, etc . . . If it can store digital information, take it from her. I shouldn’t need to remind you how sensitive this information is and how you are to handle it.
We’ve thrown away any semblance of being subtle and the warning there is clear—the information I recover is for his eyes only or I’ll find myself in the same place Amy Holder has found herself. I’m not to befriend her, get close to her, draw things out. I am to take everything from her. Immediately.
Amy’s headlights shine across the yard as she swings into her narrow driveway, the right side of her car barely missing the trash can. It’s a five-martini minimum night for sure.
The car cuts off but the driver’s door doesn’t open.
Minutes tick by and she’s still not out of the car. I wait until ten minutes pass before I leave my hiding spot and slowly walk down the driveway to where she’s parked. As soon as I get close enough to the car, I see her slumped form draped over the steering wheel.
Opening the driver’s-side door, I catch her before she falls out onto the concrete. I dig through her purse to find her keys, shoving them in my pocket. Grabbing Amy underneath her arms, I drag her from the car and up the driveway. She loses one shoe and then the other. I almost want to flip off the camera I know is pointed at me, but I resist and keep my body turned away from the street as much as possible. It’s slow and steady until we get to the front door. Blessed silence meets us as I get the door unlocked and open.
I don’t stop moving until I get her to the couch. Once she’s lying down, I go back outside to grab her shoes and purse, and take a moment to search her vehicle. It’s as clean and empty as the day she drove it off the lot.