and smells like cheap cleaning products. A flimsy desk, vending machine, and three plastic chairs occupy most of the floor space, while a middle-aged man with a matching gray moustache and jumpsuit reads a newspaper behind the desk. He folds the paper when I approach.
“Car trouble?” he guesses.
“Flat tire,” I say. “There’s a spare on there now. I need to change it.”
He stands and nods. “Sure. I can help you with that.”
I drive the car into the third bay, which is empty, and open the trunk to show him the busted tire. He leaves to confirm they have a match in stock.
“Got one,” he announces, coming back with a tire hung on his arm. I’ll have to assume it’s the right one; they all look the same to me.
“Great.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” he says. “You can wait in the office if you want. It’s warmer in there.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets and retreat to the office, halting halfway through the door. There’s a man at the counter, his back to me. He’s wearing an army green winter coat with jeans and boots, and he turns at the sound of my approach, eyes widening comically when he spots me.
It’s the stranger.
The fucking stranger.
He’s holding a bottle of motor oil from the rack beside him, and now it slips through his fingers and falls to the floor, bouncing twice before landing on its side. For a long, stunned moment all I can do is stare at it.
“Be honest,” he says, eying me warily as he crouches to pick up the oil. “Are you following me? Because I’m flattered, but you’re being a little obvious.”
Right after my father was arrested, there was this journalist named Larry who used to trail me everywhere, going to extremes even other psycho journalists considered too far. He posed as a gravedigger at my brother’s funeral; called claiming to be my father’s lawyer; and even hacked into my gynecologist’s database to learn when my next appointment was so he could “be there.” That was the one that got him arrested.
Despite his efforts to be stealthy, Larry was everywhere. There was no way not to recognize him after a while. And after a certain number of “coincidences,” it became suspicious. The stranger isn’t Larry, but he’s starting to feel like more than a coincidence, too.
“Do you work here?” the stranger asks when I don’t say anything. “I need to buy...”
“No,” I interrupt. “I don’t work here.”
“Oh.” He takes in my winter coat, torn jeans, sneakers, wool hat. I suppose I could work here.
“Why are you here?” I try not to sound paranoid, but I am. I’ve thought of little but him for the past week, but now that he’s in front of me, alarm bells are ringing.
Before he can answer, the mechanic returns. “All set,” he says, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “You paying cash—?” He breaks off when he spots the stranger. “Or credit’s fine,” he adds. “Debit. Whatever.”
He scribbles the price on an old-fashioned bill and slides it across the counter. I reach for my wallet. I always carry cash, since my credit card says my name. And while maybe the mechanic wouldn’t bat an eye at seeing Reese Carlisle, the stranger might wonder why Denise is using someone else’s card.
I collect my receipt and pull out my car keys.
“Just the oil for you?” the mechanic asks the stranger.
“You know what?” he says. “Never mind.” He returns the bottle to the display and goes to the door, holding it open for me to pass through. It closes behind us and I take a few steps before turning.
“Why are you here?”
“Go out with me,” he says.
It takes me a second to comprehend. “What?”
“Right now,” he says. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
“I don’t—I’m not—” I try not to act like a moron who’s never been asked out before. I’ve been on dates. Lots of them. Just not with him. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I meant what I said the other night. That was a one-time thing.”
“Why?”
“Stop asking me questions. I said no.”
He tilts his head, almost quizzically, then turns to go. “You’re the boss.” Behind him, I see his truck parked at the edge of the lot.
“Why are you here?” I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care. I just need to believe this is a coincidence. As unlikely as it is, I need to believe.
He stops. “I have to change the oil. This place is on my way.”
“Your way where?”
“Home.” He finally recognizes my