“You’re being ridiculous. You won’t be stranded on the roadside. You’ve got enough gas, and there’s nothing wrong with the car.” She said the words aloud, and in hearing them, believed them. Still, every few seconds her eyes flashed to the rearview mirror, watching, waiting for the car to get off at another exit.
It didn’t. She was fast approaching hers. Only two more. She could make the paranoid decision and get off at the next one. Max decided for something in between. She got off at her own exit. If he followed, she simply wouldn’t go home. Caution sat better on her shoulders than panic or stupidity.
The headlights followed her. Her lips tightened. Still could be coincidence. She turned right at the bottom of the ramp, but instead of taking her usual route, she turned left at the second light, El Camino Real, the closest thing to a main street in downtown Santa Clara. Bright lights, lots of all-night coffee shops and mini-marts.
The car was still on her tail.
Okay, okay. Better to be cautious again. She passed a 7-11 and figuratively passed it in her mind as well, thinking of men with guns and Cameron bleeding on the dirty linoleum after they shot him. Nope, 7-11 was no safe haven at midnight.
A red and yellow Denny’s sign popped out from behind a tree as she drove steadily along. Denny’s. Waitresses. Bus boys. Students having coffee to shore them up for late-night study sessions. Turning in as a precaution, she’d wait until the car passed, give it another five minutes, then head home. Chances were her shadow would keep on going as if she’d never existed.
It didn’t.
Only one option left, Max grabbed her purse, shoved the car door open and fled into the interior of the restaurant. Warm, quiet, and fragrant with the smell of bacon and grease, the place was half full—mostly students in booths, waitresses in pink uniforms, and several busboys. Max took a seat at the counter, in front of the grill where two night cooks flipped burgers and eggs. Two big guys who looked like they could double as bouncers. Max gave them each a direct smile, picked up a menu and refused to look over her shoulder. The front door hadn’t opened, no one had followed, but the sedan following her sat outside the window at her back, the reflected light from the restaurant obscuring any view through the windshield.
“You’re such a wuss,” she told the menu. “Go out there and tell him to get lost.”
A car door slammed. Her heart skipped a beat. For the first time, she thought of Mr. Blockhead in the bar. What if he’d noticed her watching the pick up? What if he’d followed to find out why?
What if he was Lance La Russa’s killer?
The pink-skirted, white-aproned waitress stood in front of her. Her blonde hair, teased and fluffed like a poodle’s, looked almost white in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Something red like ketchup had soaked into her pink front. Like a bloodstain at her breast.
“I’ll take coffee,” Max said before the college-aged girl could open her mouth. “And I like it really hot.” Hot enough to burn when thrown in someone’s face.
The front door opened. She ignored it with the idea that to look was to let the guy know she was aware of him. She preferred to keep the element of surprise on her side. A long stream of brown liquid filled the cup in front of her. The blonde waitress said, “You want me to come back to take your order?”
Her teeth were white and perfect. A pretty girl. Someone a stalker would definitely hit on. “No. I only want coffee, thanks.”
Max warmed her hands on the cup that was almost too hot to hold.
“What ya doing, Max?”
She almost shrieked and barely managed not to throw the coffee in Witt’s face.
Chapter Six
“What the hell are you doing following me like that?” Why, for holy hell in a hand basket, had Max not even considered it could be Witt following her? Self-preservation. A blood-thirsty murdering serial stalker was preferable to Witt if he knew where Max had taken his mother tonight.
He settled into the seat beside her before answering. He reached for her coffee, pried it from her fingers and took a long slug as if the stuff was merely lukewarm. Then he gave it back.
The waitress was there, appearing almost out of thin air. Batting her baby blues at Witt, she asked, “Can I get you coffee?”
He wore his navy suit. He looked sharp in navy. The girl thought so, too, glancing from his dimples—the bastard was smiling—to his big hands. “Thanks,” he said.
She poured, pushed the cream and sugar his way, handed him the menu already opened. “I’d recommend the stack. Of pancakes, that is.”
Funny girl. A regular comedian. Max felt her lip curl.
Witt put his hand on Max’s arm. “Coffee’s fine, thanks.”
“Well, my name’s Cindy,” she said, ignoring Witt’s proprietary grip on Max. “You call if you decide you want anything else.” She walked away, her backside swaying, giving Witt another long glance over her shoulder.
“Cute as bug’s ear, isn’t she?” He grinned, offering a final flutter of his fingers for the girl.
“More like a sow’s tail.”