thanks, uh…”
She felt a rush of relief when they turned the corner onto Cannery Row and were suddenly playing Dodge the Tourists. Crowds. Crowds were good. Resurrected serial killers would have a hard time coming after her in a big crowd. She stopped underneath the hand-painted sign for her Laughing Lotus Yoga Studio and scanned the busy street, but she saw no evidence of Liz’s car.
When she turned toward the studio, she saw that Stan had planted himself in front of the doorway, where he was simply watching her with wide, staring blue eyes.
“Do you have a question for me, Stan?” His eyes were a nice blue. A perfectly normal shade of blue with the slightest smile lines at the corners. There was nothing wrong with him—no reason for him to be setting off her alarm bells this way.
Nerves. It’s just nerves.
“No—well, yes, actually, but it’s not about yoga.” Interrupting himself with a loud sigh, Stan rolled his eyes skyward. “Say it. Just say it. You can say it.”
Her eyes flicked back to the street, and as the silence stretched between them, she willed Liz’s car to appear. “Uh, Stan?”
“Would you go out with me? This Saturday, maybe? There’s a great little ice cream shop in Carmel, and we could walk on the beach afterward, and I’ll pick you up at one, if that’s okay with you.” He skimmed his hand along his hip bone during his entire nervous, rapidfire monologue, as if trying to shove his fingers into a pocket that wasn’t there. “I mean, if it’s not too drizzly on the beach. It always seems to rain on the public-access parts even when the rest of the area is sunny—”
“I’m seeing someone,” she blurted, cringing inwardly at the lie.
She should have known. Ever since James had died, shy, awkward men had come out from every corner of Monterey to ask her out, as if sensing that something was slightly off-kilter inside her, too. But she wasn’t socially awkward—she just didn’t want to socialize. She didn’t want to go out on dates, she didn’t want to go shopping with friends, she barely wanted to go to work in the morning. It all seemed so superficial and…unfair, since James couldn’t do any of it anymore. Maybe that’s why she’d upped her class load and spent more of her free time teaching, after selling the clothing boutique she used to own…before. At least teaching made her feel as if she was doing something useful with her life.
“Just as you should be,” Stan murmured to the sidewalk. He shuffled his weight from side to side, his hands moving awkwardly. He really wasn’t bad looking—he had a pleasant face, a healthy head of hair and a fit physique, if a little on the skinny side. But dating wasn’t something she did anymore—she just couldn’t drum up the energy to be attracted to someone.
“I’m sorry.” She really was. And now she knew why Stan had made her uneasy—she must’ve known at some unconscious level that they would be having this uncomfortable conversation soon.
He nodded several times, opening his mouth once to respond and then closing it again. Still nodding, he started ambling down the street. A few seconds later, he turned around and came back to stand beside her.
“I’m sorry to put you in that position.” He waved off her reflexive denial. “I don’t want my being in your class to get strange. It’s just…” His gaze darted across the street, and he shrugged. “My mother is in the hospital. They think she might be dying this time, and I just feel peaceful when I’m around you.” He looked back at the blue-and-green sign hanging over the studio door, showing a laughing woman sitting cross-legged and holding a lotus. “I bet you have that effect on a lot of people.”
She was officially a monster. The poor guy’s mother was dying, and she’d been acting all uncomfortable just because he’d paid her the compliment of asking her out. “I’m so sorry, Stan. Has she been sick long?” Making a conscious effort to relax her body, she glanced down at her hands to discover she’d woven her fingers through her set of keys while they’d been talking, so a key stuck straight out between each pair—instant brass knuckles.
Stan didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. She had cancer a while back, and now it’s in her lungs. They told her she has about a month left.”
“I’m sorry.” What do you say to something like that without resorting to clichés and stale platitudes? She couldn’t even imagine going through what the poor guy was dealing with, as her own parents were strong and healthy. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
Instead of replying, Stan suddenly lifted his arm in the air to flag a passing taxi. With a murmured goodbye, he got inside, and the cab disappeared down the street.
A few minutes later, Liz screeched into view in her off-duty Dodge Charger, black with dark-tinted windows. Nobody loved an American muscle car better than Liz. Leaning her body against the door, Adriana curled her fingers under its handle, then stopped.
A flash of gray out of the corner of her eye. The sense that someone was staring at her.
Stan was gone—the awkward moment had passed—and yet, something still felt…off, somehow. And all she had to go on to prove it was a feeling. She watched the street, as people strolled in and out of the vibrant little shops and art galleries lining the historic street. Some paused to admire the explosions of flowers planted near curbs and on the road dividers. Many were undoubtedly headed toward the far end of the street, to either visit the famous aquarium or just for a glimpse of Monterey Bay itself. It was a pleasant scene, one straight out of the glossy, free, tourist brochures inside her studio.
And something was so wrong about it all. But what?
Still looking down the street, she opened the door and got into the car.
“S ORRY I’ M LATE ,” a deep voice said to her left, the masculine sound very unlike Liz’s no-nonsense alto.
Whipping her head around in shock, she discovered that Liz wasn’t inside waiting for her…and that she herself wasn’t even in Liz’s car. The sleek black Charger looked exactly like Liz’s from the outside, but the gray interior lacked the crumpled soda cans and ballet and basketball gear her daughters perpetually left inside. Come to think of it, the familiar Truth or D.A.R.E. decal on the rear side window touting the police-run drug education program was also missing. And there was also the small detail that in the driver’s seat, instead of Liz, was a man she hadn’t seen in four years—one she remembered all too well.
“Lieutenant Borkowski sent me,” Detective Daniel Cardenas said without preamble, which was enough to stop her from apologizing and scrambling out of the vehicle.
“You two have the same car,” she replied, immediately wanting to kick herself for sounding so stupid.
“There’s a Dodge dealer in town who likes cops. Nice discounts.” He hit a button on the door armrest, causing all four doors to lock down with a loud thud. “Buckle up.”
She clicked her seat belt into place, knowing that if Liz had sent him, she’d had a good reason for doing so. “So, Detective, you want to tell me why Liz isn’t picking me up herself like she promised?”
“She said she promised you a ride, Ms. Torres,” he said, as unfailingly polite as she remembered. Despite the Latin last name—he was Puerto Rican, she remembered—his English was unaccented, until he said her name with the rolling R and musical tone of a native Spanish speaker.
“Adriana.
