The Apothecary Page 0,2

got onto Selma Avenue, which was quiet and tree-lined, there was a man outside a house pruning his roses, but no cars.

My heart was pounding and I made myself breathe slowly. I nodded to the man with the roses and kept walking down Selma. I told myself it was silly to be afraid: No one was following me. They had no reason to follow me. I tossed my hair, wishing it would move in one glossy, curvy mass, and then the black sedan came around the corner ahead and cruised slowly towards me. I felt a cold flush, as if ice water had been pumped through my veins.

I looked back to the rose man, but he had gone inside his house. I gripped my books to keep my hands from shaking, and I kept walking as the black car drove towards me, ridiculously slowly. As it passed, I kept my chin very high and slid a glance sideways. In the car were two men in dark suits. The one closest to me, in the passenger seat, had hair so short he looked like a soldier, and he was watching me. There were two dark, brimmed hats on the backseat. I didn’t know any man who wore a hat.

I kept walking, and the black car stopped and idled at the kerb. I turned on Vista, my own street, and when I thought I was out of sight, I ran for the house, fumbling for my key. My parents were at work and wouldn’t be home yet. I dropped the key and picked it up off the sidewalk as the black sedan turned onto Vista, and then I got inside and slammed the door and slid the chain.

“Hello?” I called to the empty house, just in case. No one answered.

I dropped my books and ran to the back door, which led out to the patio, and I made sure the door was locked. Sometimes we were careless about that door because it led to the hedged-in garden, not to the street, but the bolt was thrown, so the house had been locked all day. I looked out the front window and saw the sedan parked by the kerb at the end of the block, waiting. I closed the curtains and turned on the lights in the kitchen, my hands still shaking. The kitchen was the room where I felt safest, because it was where I sat every night with my parents, doing homework while they cooked, listening to them talk.

I told myself it was fine, it was probably in my mind. It was my imagination taking over. I made myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich and started doing my algebra homework. Each problem was like a puzzle, and it helped take my mind off the men who might or might not be sitting in their black car on the corner of our street, behind the curtains I was determined not to open.

At six o’clock, I was deep in a hunt for the value of x when I heard the door open and hit the end of the chain hard. My heart started to race again. I’d managed to pretend that the men weren’t really after me, but here they were, breaking in.

“What is this?” a man’s angry voice said.

Then I realised the voice was more annoyed than angry, and then I realised it was my father’s. “Janie?” he called, more alarmed now than annoyed. “Are you here? What’s going on?”

We walked that night to Musso and Frank’s, which was my favourite restaurant, but it didn’t feel like a treat. My parents tried to pretend everything was just fine, but we took back alleys, and they watched the corners at every street. My father walked so fast that my mother and I had to walk double-time just to keep up.

We took a booth, and I ordered the thin pancakes called flannel cakes for dinner. I wanted my parents to object and make me order chicken and vegetables—I wanted things to be normal—but they didn’t even notice.

“So who are those men in the car?” I asked.

My mother sighed. “They’re US marshals,” she said. “From Washington. The government.”

That didn’t make any sense. “What do they want?”

“We’ve been wanting to tell you, Janie,” she said. She always got right to the point, but now she was dancing around whatever she was trying to say. “We have news, and we think it’s good news. We’re—well, we’re thinking we’ll all move to London.”

I stared at her.

“It will