My blood stopped circulating.
But then it started right up again when Sophie’s hands flew out to either side in a panic. Her body jerked to the side as she tried to get away from him.
With my heart in my throat, I fumbled blindly for the door handle in what was still an unfamiliar car.
By the time I’d managed to step out of my car, Sophie and her attacker were talking again. She’d crossed her arms in front of her chest, and he’d taken a heathy step back. His head was bowed in what looked like contrition.
Jesus fuck. There was nobody on earth in whose life I was less welcome to interfere. Sophie would be better off if she didn’t set eyes on me until the end of her days. But I wouldn’t stand by while someone manhandled her.
I took a hot breath and tried to get a grip on myself.
I wasn’t near enough to hear what Sophie was saying to this dickwad. But she looked calm as she began to walk away. Then she seemed to pause, as if waiting for him to follow.
After a moment and another exchange of conversation, he trailed after her.
A second later, I was back in my seat and starting the engine. I backed out in a hurry, but then eased around the row of parked cars. They were walking side by side now, though Sophie still held her arms folded in that protective stance. When they’d gotten twenty-five yards down the sidewalk, I turned out of the parking lot and followed them.
It wasn’t a long chase. A minute later they crossed the parking lot toward the bowling alley, of all places. I’d been there once with Sophie for a high school friend’s birthday party.
Sweater guy held the door open for her, and seconds later they disappeared inside. I stopped my car. Don’t get out, I begged myself.
And I didn’t. But my pulse was elevated, and my nerves were raw. Really raw. Everything was just so wrong. Sophie wasn’t supposed to be in Vermont at all. She was supposed to be living a brand new life in New York. And she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be with some asshole who couldn’t control himself.
As I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, the itch came for me. And I heard a panicked echo of my own voice in my head. I can’t handle this right now. I just need it to ease up for a minute. Just a little.
Even before I knew what I was doing, I’d swung the car onto the road again. Three turns later, I was cruising down a dark street at the edge of town.
Yesterday I’d spotted the dealer on the way to pick up that old lady’s tires—a guy in a hoodie, sitting out on his front porch in spite of the chill. When I’d driven slowly by, he’d followed my car with his eyes.
A dealer on the clock. They were everywhere if you knew what you were looking for. And I knew.
My heart was still banging away in my chest, my breath coming in gasps. I needed relief, and I didn’t care what it cost me. Just a little hit would be enough. Just one. Ten dollars wouldn’t buy me much, so it couldn’t get too ugly. Just this once, the echo in my head assured me.
My brain locked onto the search, and I cruised slowly down the street, looking for the porch with the dude in the hoodie. Where’d you go? Where’d you go? my gut chanted.
Nothing.
I stopped the car at the end of the street and turned around. Slowly, I cruised back. I thought I knew which house it had been, and there were lights on inside. If I cruised around the block, he’d probably reappear.
But now another car turned down the street, moving slowly. I didn’t like the look of it. It was a feeble act of self-preservation, but I stepped on the gas. If there were cops watching this house, and I made a buy, that would be it for me. A bust for buying drugs would send me back to prison faster than you can say “loser.”
These tiny coincidences—the missing dealer (probably on a pee break) and the other car—they were just enough to get me off that street. But it wasn’t enough to make my craving stop. Nothing was.
Still feeling shaky, I drove through town. When the highway entrance ramp appeared, I got onto it. The steering wheel was sweaty in my hands, but I kept going. Fifteen miles later, I exited again, my beat-up car turning down a country road, and then another.
Maybe it was just the reflex of five recent months spent here, but I found myself turning at the Shipley Farms sign and pulling up their lengthy gravel drive. The farmhouse was all lit up inside, and I recognized two extra trucks in the driveway.
It was Thursday night. Which meant Thursday Dinner, a weekly social event the Shipleys did, alternating weeks with the neighbor down the road. A dozen or more people would be gathering inside for supper and board games.