Savage Row - Britney King Page 0,34

throat. “And calm down. I’m not going to ask you to do a J-turn.”

“What’s a J-turn?”

“A reverse 180.”

It feels like I’ve already done that.

“Is he still behind you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see him.”

“Look again. Just don’t make it obvious. Make a few turns if you can.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“One sighting of a potentially suspicious vehicle—may be nothing. Two sightings—suspicious behavior. Three sightings—even separated by time or distance—assume surveillance. One thing to keep in mind—and Aim, this is the important part…”

“What?”

“Target identification is the signal that often starts the attack.”

“What the fuck does that mean? Jesus, Alex. Speak in simple terms.”

“It means it may be the last chance you have to recognize danger before the actual attack starts.”

“Good to know.”

I hang up on him and dial 9-1-1.

The dispatcher tells me to look for the officer. Every thirty seconds or so she repeats how far away he is and how long it will take for him to reach me. It feels like an eternity before I finally spot his car, but in reality it’s only four minutes.

I pull into a parking spot in front of Home Depot. The officer parks next to me, comes around to the driver’s side, and rests his elbows on my door. He’s an older man, bald and round, with a face that looks too friendly to be a cop. He asks for a description of the car and I reiterate the same thing I told the dispatcher. I explain who I think it is, and he asks if I have a restraining order.

I tell him I don’t. He asks about Jack Mooney and whether he’s a family member or if we’ve ever had a dating relationship.

“No,” I say. “I served on his jury fifteen years ago.”

His face is impassable. He listens to chatter on the radio.

“What should I do now?”

His eyes widen. “That’s the million dollar question.”

“What do you mean?” He’s calmer than I’d like him to be. I expect outrage. I expect him to be concerned, determined to fix this. Instead, he looks at me like this is a story he’s heard a million times before.

“Look out for yourself — but also understand—stalking is not easily defined outside of the relationships I mentioned.” He shakes his head. Then once again, leans his head toward his shoulder to listen to the chatter on his radio. He holds a button down and says something in response. “Not unless you catch the perp in the act. And sometimes…not even then.”

I watch as he walks back to his car. He returns with a pamphlet, which he passes through the open window. His expression makes me feel like I’m about to officially become a member of a club I really don’t want to belong to.

He sighs. “Remember, you should report everything. All incidents. Even if it feels insignificant. What you’re doing is building a case. This guy is on parole. There are conditions he has to abide by. An officer he has to report to. Eventually, he’ll slip up—and get caught doing it. So it’s imperative that you request that each incident is documented, okay? Some officers—especially if there’s a lot going on—won’t take the time to write it up. Let them know you plan to request a copy of the report. And then do it.”

“Okay.”

“Also, you’ll wanna make sure you turn over any written correspondence. You’ll wanna report any phone threats to the law enforcement agency where the incident happened. Keep in mind—different jurisdictions will handle things differently. Put dates received on any and all correspondence from him. And last, know the name of the law enforcement officer involved with each incident. And that’s not just for your own records—I can’t tell you how important it is to make friends right now.”

“I see.” I glance down at the pamphlet in my hands. “Anything else?”

“Tell everyone. And I mean everyone. Give friends, co-workers, and neighbors a description of the guy. Ask them to document each time they see him. What he’s doing, what he’s driving, what he’s wearing. The time and date are vital as well.”

I swallow hard. I don’t tell him I’ve already heard all of this. From the police. From Alex. From the internet. Instead, I simply offer a weak smile. “Got it.”

“And take care of yourself, okay?”

I feel tears forming, starting way down at the back of my throat. A nod is all I can manage.

He pats my door. “Now, if you were my daughter…I’d tell you to arm yourself.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Good. If I