him anyway, because he’s just so . . . bland. A man with a manila envelope walks in. I can tell he’s white, medium build, nothing special about him in particular; he’s wearing blue jeans and a checked shirt and a ball cap. I’d pass him on the street and never even notice.
Like Melvin, I think, and shiver.
He talks to the guy behind the counter, gets a courier envelope, and opens it up. I freeze it, and the image isn’t fantastic, but I see a white blur. He’s dropping a letter into the package.
Melvin’s letter.
I take the thumb drive out of my pocket and copy the digital footage from the moment he comes into the shop to when he leaves. He hands over the credit card, and the clerk on duty doesn’t seem to even hesitate, or look at the name, before running it.
Why do that? Why not just pay cash? He’s exposing himself. He’s not that stupid.
Unless he wanted me to find this. Wanted me to be here.
I felt clever until now. And suddenly I feel exposed, and manipulated, and very worried.
While my unwitting coconspirator is gone, I flip back to today’s recording and make sure I erase my presence on entry, and at the counter. I’ll be sure to keep my face turned away now that I know where the camera is. I wipe the keyboard and mouse clean of fingerprints.
I’ve just finished when Dale comes back. “All done,” I say. “Thanks so much for your help.” I feel a little bad for him, but his boss can’t hold him accountable, not when Dale did his due diligence and called. Not his fault I’m leaving him holding a blank piece of paper and a fake phone number.
“Is he some kind of killer or something?” Dale asks. “If you can tell me, I mean.”
“I can’t, sorry,” I say. We come out of the hallway, and just as we do, my luck runs out. The bell dings as someone opens the door and walks inside.
I only get a glimpse of him, but my gut kicks hard, and I know it’s him. It’s him.
I’ve just locked eyes with the man who sent Melvin’s letter.
“Hey!” I shout.
He looks around, as if he’s not sure if I’m talking to him. I launch myself at him, and he backpedals, shocked, and then quickly turns and runs.
I hit the door hard with my shoulder and stumble outside, off balance. He went to the left. I see him twenty paces ahead of me already, but I start closing the distance fast. My vision narrows, red at the edges. He speeds up after glancing back, but I’m still gaining on him.
I reach out to grab his shirt, and I’m close enough my fingers brush fabric, but I can’t get a grip. He twists and pulls free, and momentum sends me stumbling desperately for balance. By the time I get myself right again, he’s around the corner. But I’m not about to give up. No way in hell. I put my whole self into it, tap into every reserve, and I gain on him again. Fast.
I catch up to him halfway down the side street. It’s not busy here, and I don’t hesitate. I grab him and drag him into the closest shadowed alleyway, out of sight of anyone who was watching us.
Then I slam him to the ground so hard his ball cap flies off and rolls unsteadily away. He lets out a breathless, injured “Hey!” but stops talking as I twist his arm up behind his back with my knee pinning his opposite side. He’s not going anywhere. “Ow!”
“You sent me a package on Monday,” I say. “Remember?”
“I what?” He turns his head, and I realize there’s something . . . wrong with it. For a second I think, Oh my God, I’ve crushed his skull, because it’s oddly flat under the blur of close-cut dark hair. But the scar that twists through the skin is old. Several years old. “Please, lady! Please don’t! Please don’t hurt me!”
He sounds panicked. And a little odd, a little off, his tone strangely flat. I start rethinking what I’m doing. Oh God. What if I’ve just made an awful mistake? I ease up a little, but I keep holding him down.
“My name is Gina Royal,” I say. “Did you send me a package on Monday? Yes or no.”
“Uh—yes?”
“You’re sure?”
“I guess so.”
“Why?”
“Because—because a guy paid me,” he says. “Cash, two hundred bucks, just to pick up an envelope and take