black, and it was hard for her to tell where one building ended and the next one began. She passed several government workers with their coats open to the cold, their ID badges swinging from lanyards around their necks. Most people were heading toward the Metro as Jessie walked away from it. The farther she got from the station, the fewer people she saw.
She crossed the street to the next block of office buildings, and the area became bleaker. The few restaurants and retail shops she passed were already closed, the nine-to-five crowd they catered to gone until tomorrow. It didn’t make sense that Helena would want to meet her in this part of town when her K Street office was surrounded by swanky bars and cafes.
By the time Jessie reached the middle of the block, she wondered if she were lost. She checked her directions. If they were right, she was on track, with a little farther to go. Glancing behind her, she saw a man standing by a trash can lighting a cigarette, a few other people walking in the other direction, and the driver of a BMW inching the car out from an underground parking garage. Every noise seemed amplified by the concrete and the cold—the static of her heels on the grainy sidewalk, the rev of the car’s engine.
Paranoia crept up Jessie’s spine and wrapped around her neck, tighter than her scarf. She hadn’t seen anyone specifically, but she felt like someone was following her, matching her steps but hanging back. At the next corner, she whipped around in time to catch a sliver of movement. Someone had ducked into the entrance alcove of the building she’d just passed. Or had her eyes been tricked by the glare of the headlights of the approaching taxi?
Jessie decided to hail the cab, then saw that it was occupied, so she picked up her pace, hurrying toward the next block. The streetscape became a dimmer rerun of what had come before, with fewer people around.
Fewer witnesses.
Had she been set up? Fear gripped her as she sensed the person following her moving closer. She broke into a run, each strike of her heels on the frozen concrete reverberating up her legs.
Slowing a bit, she turned to look behind her and the toe of her boot caught on an uneven seam in the sidewalk. She stumbled forward, lost her balance, and tried to catch herself. In what seemed like slow motion, she fell. Her hands skidded across the sidewalk, ripping one of her gloves, her palm burning as it tore. She drew in a quick breath, winced at the searing pain, and scrambled to her feet, expecting someone to have appeared to take advantage of her fall. But a quick scan of the area revealed no one. Jessie continued walking.
Fast.
After another block, the sound of highway traffic hummed in the near distance. At the end of the street, tucked beneath an overpass in a small, gloomy corner, she saw the Market Inn. A rush of relief almost dulled the sting of the cuts on her hand.
A low burgundy awning covered the entrance and a deserted outdoor dining area. And the place wasn’t an inn like she’d imagined, just a restaurant and lounge.
Jessie glanced behind her.
No one there.
She crossed the street and hurried inside. In the cramped foyer, she gingerly pulled off her torn glove. Her hand was cut and bloody, grainy with sand and tiny rocks. She asked the hostess to point her toward the ladies’ room. As she made her way to the back of the restaurant, she pegged it as circa 1945, all dark wood veneer and worn red Naugahyde. But the ladies’ room had been updated—sometime around the early seventies.
Jessie left the bathroom blotting a couple of nasty cuts that hadn’t stopped bleeding. They were painful now, but would hurt worse tomorrow.
She stepped into the lounge, a narrow space with a massive bar that stretched the length of the room. Happy hour had started almost an hour ago, but she couldn’t tell by looking at the sullen faces of the few people seated at the bar. An old song that Jessie didn’t recognize played on
She crossed the street to the next block of office buildings, and the area became bleaker. The few restaurants and retail shops she passed were already closed, the nine-to-five crowd they catered to gone until tomorrow. It didn’t make sense that Helena would want to meet her in this part of town when her K Street office was surrounded by swanky bars and cafes.
By the time Jessie reached the middle of the block, she wondered if she were lost. She checked her directions. If they were right, she was on track, with a little farther to go. Glancing behind her, she saw a man standing by a trash can lighting a cigarette, a few other people walking in the other direction, and the driver of a BMW inching the car out from an underground parking garage. Every noise seemed amplified by the concrete and the cold—the static of her heels on the grainy sidewalk, the rev of the car’s engine.
Paranoia crept up Jessie’s spine and wrapped around her neck, tighter than her scarf. She hadn’t seen anyone specifically, but she felt like someone was following her, matching her steps but hanging back. At the next corner, she whipped around in time to catch a sliver of movement. Someone had ducked into the entrance alcove of the building she’d just passed. Or had her eyes been tricked by the glare of the headlights of the approaching taxi?
Jessie decided to hail the cab, then saw that it was occupied, so she picked up her pace, hurrying toward the next block. The streetscape became a dimmer rerun of what had come before, with fewer people around.
Fewer witnesses.
Had she been set up? Fear gripped her as she sensed the person following her moving closer. She broke into a run, each strike of her heels on the frozen concrete reverberating up her legs.
Slowing a bit, she turned to look behind her and the toe of her boot caught on an uneven seam in the sidewalk. She stumbled forward, lost her balance, and tried to catch herself. In what seemed like slow motion, she fell. Her hands skidded across the sidewalk, ripping one of her gloves, her palm burning as it tore. She drew in a quick breath, winced at the searing pain, and scrambled to her feet, expecting someone to have appeared to take advantage of her fall. But a quick scan of the area revealed no one. Jessie continued walking.
Fast.
After another block, the sound of highway traffic hummed in the near distance. At the end of the street, tucked beneath an overpass in a small, gloomy corner, she saw the Market Inn. A rush of relief almost dulled the sting of the cuts on her hand.
A low burgundy awning covered the entrance and a deserted outdoor dining area. And the place wasn’t an inn like she’d imagined, just a restaurant and lounge.
Jessie glanced behind her.
No one there.
She crossed the street and hurried inside. In the cramped foyer, she gingerly pulled off her torn glove. Her hand was cut and bloody, grainy with sand and tiny rocks. She asked the hostess to point her toward the ladies’ room. As she made her way to the back of the restaurant, she pegged it as circa 1945, all dark wood veneer and worn red Naugahyde. But the ladies’ room had been updated—sometime around the early seventies.
Jessie left the bathroom blotting a couple of nasty cuts that hadn’t stopped bleeding. They were painful now, but would hurt worse tomorrow.
She stepped into the lounge, a narrow space with a massive bar that stretched the length of the room. Happy hour had started almost an hour ago, but she couldn’t tell by looking at the sullen faces of the few people seated at the bar. An old song that Jessie didn’t recognize played on
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