proceed, if only to prove my point.
No one stopped us from driving away. The teenagers filmed our exit, as if hoping my car would transform into a broomstick and take flight. The Salvationists had retreated to their minivan before we made it to the corner, probably grateful for the excuse to sit down.
Savannah decided she wanted takeout from Golden Dragon. The local Chinese restaurant was run by Mabel Higgins, who’d never set foot outside Massachusetts in her life, and, judging by her cooking, had never cracked open an Asian cookbook. To Mabel, bean sprouts were exotic. Her idea of Chinese cooking was American chop suey—A.K.A. macaroni and ground beef.
Unfortunately, other than the bakery, the Golden Dragon was the only restaurant in East Falls. The bakery closed at five, so I had to buy my dinner from the Golden Dragon as well. I decided on plain white rice. Even Mabel couldn’t screw that up.
I parked on the street. Most parking in East Falls is curbside, particularly in the village core, where all the buildings predate the automotiveage. I’ve never mastered parallel parking—I’d rather walk an extra block than attempt it—so I pulled over in the empty stretch in front of the grocer, which had also closed at five.
“Geez, can’t you park a little closer?” Savannah said. “We’re, like, a mile away.”
“More like a hundred feet. Come on. Get out.”
She launched into a moaning fit, as if I was asking her to trudge twenty miles through waist-high snow.
“Wait here then,” I said. “What do you want?”
She gave me her order. Then I warned her that I was locking her in and did so, with both the car remote and spells.
As I headed back to the car, I noticed an SUV parked behind my Accord and quickened my pace. Yes, I was being paranoid. Yet, considering there were no other cars within a half-dozen spaces of mine, it did seem odd, even alarming. As I jogged toward my car, I saw the face of the SUV driver. Not Leah. Not Sandford. Grantham Cary, Jr.
“Great,” I muttered.
I slowed to a quick march and yanked my keys from my purse. Under my breath, I undid the locking spells, then hit the remote unlock, so I could hop in my car without stopping long enough for him to approach me. As I drew near, I heard the soft rumble of his engine idling. I kept my gaze fixed on my car, listening for the sound of his door opening. Instead I heard the clunk of his transmission shifting into gear.
“Good,” I said. “Just keep going.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reverse to pull out. Then he drove forward. Straight forward, hitting my car with a crash. Savannah flew against the dashboard.
“You son of a bitch!” I shouted, dropping the take-out bag and running for the car.
Cary veered out and tore off.
I raced to the passenger door and yanked it open. Inside, Savannah cupped a bloody nose.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I just hit my nose.”
I grabbed a handful of tissues from the box behind her seat and passed them to her, then examined the bridge of her nose. It didn’t feel broken.
“I’m okay, Paige. Really.” She glanced down at her blood-streaked T-shirt. “Shit! My new shirt! Did you get a license number? That guy’s paying for my shirt.”
“He’s paying for more than your shirt. And I don’t need a license number. I know who it was.”
While Savannah went to retrieve the take-out bag from the sidewalk, I pulled out my cell phone, called the operator, and asked for the police.
“I’m not doubting it was Cary,” Willard said. “I’m asking if you can prove it.”
Of the three East Falls deputies, Travis Willard was the one I’d hoped they’d send. The town’s youngest deputy—a couple of years my senior—he was the nicest of the bunch. His wife, Janey, and I had served at several charity functions together, and she was one of the few townspeople who’d made me feel welcome. Now, though, I was questioning the wisdom of phoning the police at all.
Although
No one stopped us from driving away. The teenagers filmed our exit, as if hoping my car would transform into a broomstick and take flight. The Salvationists had retreated to their minivan before we made it to the corner, probably grateful for the excuse to sit down.
Savannah decided she wanted takeout from Golden Dragon. The local Chinese restaurant was run by Mabel Higgins, who’d never set foot outside Massachusetts in her life, and, judging by her cooking, had never cracked open an Asian cookbook. To Mabel, bean sprouts were exotic. Her idea of Chinese cooking was American chop suey—A.K.A. macaroni and ground beef.
Unfortunately, other than the bakery, the Golden Dragon was the only restaurant in East Falls. The bakery closed at five, so I had to buy my dinner from the Golden Dragon as well. I decided on plain white rice. Even Mabel couldn’t screw that up.
I parked on the street. Most parking in East Falls is curbside, particularly in the village core, where all the buildings predate the automotiveage. I’ve never mastered parallel parking—I’d rather walk an extra block than attempt it—so I pulled over in the empty stretch in front of the grocer, which had also closed at five.
“Geez, can’t you park a little closer?” Savannah said. “We’re, like, a mile away.”
“More like a hundred feet. Come on. Get out.”
She launched into a moaning fit, as if I was asking her to trudge twenty miles through waist-high snow.
“Wait here then,” I said. “What do you want?”
She gave me her order. Then I warned her that I was locking her in and did so, with both the car remote and spells.
As I headed back to the car, I noticed an SUV parked behind my Accord and quickened my pace. Yes, I was being paranoid. Yet, considering there were no other cars within a half-dozen spaces of mine, it did seem odd, even alarming. As I jogged toward my car, I saw the face of the SUV driver. Not Leah. Not Sandford. Grantham Cary, Jr.
“Great,” I muttered.
I slowed to a quick march and yanked my keys from my purse. Under my breath, I undid the locking spells, then hit the remote unlock, so I could hop in my car without stopping long enough for him to approach me. As I drew near, I heard the soft rumble of his engine idling. I kept my gaze fixed on my car, listening for the sound of his door opening. Instead I heard the clunk of his transmission shifting into gear.
“Good,” I said. “Just keep going.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reverse to pull out. Then he drove forward. Straight forward, hitting my car with a crash. Savannah flew against the dashboard.
“You son of a bitch!” I shouted, dropping the take-out bag and running for the car.
Cary veered out and tore off.
I raced to the passenger door and yanked it open. Inside, Savannah cupped a bloody nose.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I just hit my nose.”
I grabbed a handful of tissues from the box behind her seat and passed them to her, then examined the bridge of her nose. It didn’t feel broken.
“I’m okay, Paige. Really.” She glanced down at her blood-streaked T-shirt. “Shit! My new shirt! Did you get a license number? That guy’s paying for my shirt.”
“He’s paying for more than your shirt. And I don’t need a license number. I know who it was.”
While Savannah went to retrieve the take-out bag from the sidewalk, I pulled out my cell phone, called the operator, and asked for the police.
“I’m not doubting it was Cary,” Willard said. “I’m asking if you can prove it.”
Of the three East Falls deputies, Travis Willard was the one I’d hoped they’d send. The town’s youngest deputy—a couple of years my senior—he was the nicest of the bunch. His wife, Janey, and I had served at several charity functions together, and she was one of the few townspeople who’d made me feel welcome. Now, though, I was questioning the wisdom of phoning the police at all.
Although
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