ceased to exist."
"We should be so lucky," I said. My breath steamed in the air and the sky was getting gray. "All right, we've got a couple possibilities. One, Wheeler's lived a quiet life raising pigs in Idaho and one day decides twelve years later is as good a time as any to risk jail time by coming back and throwing carnations at you."
"Or, he's wanted to stalk me this whole time, but been stuck somewhere else for twelve years."
"Like where?" I asked.
"I don't know. Overseas? The military?"
A bus passed us, drowning out conversation. Bored looking passengers stared out of the windows. I waited until it got to the end of the street. "First one, no. You can get a plane any day of the week from most countries and it didn't take him twelve years to save money for a flight to DC. Second one, no. Unless we're talking the French Foreign Legion, soldiers still get leave, still get time off. It isn't prison, even if it feels like it."
"You said there were a couple of possibilities."
"Two. It's someone else entirely."
"It has to be Michael. I never told anyone about the flowers," she said. "You didn't even know."
"Sure, you never told anyone. But what if he did? He was such a smug prick, it's hard to believe he didn't confide in a buddy, a girlfriend, a coworker. This thing with the flowers didn't surface during the investigation or trial, so he knew we never found out about them. It would've been a tiny victory for him. Like he pulled one over on all of us. Guys like him would brag about something like that."
Her shoulders slumped. "So where does that leave me? It might be Michael or it might not. My life might be in danger or it might be a prank by some copycat sicko that wants to torture me about my mom's death."
I hesitated, then reached out and patted her shoulder. I'm not good at comforting people, but I've seen it done before. "First things first. You still at your apartment?"
She shook her head. "No. I freaked out as soon as I saw the flower. I packed a bag and spent the night at a friend's place."
"You've been there since?" I asked.
"Yes."
"All right, find another friend. Don't go there directly. Catch the Metro, grab a cab, whatever. Even better, switch a couple times. Don't just walk there. All right?"
She looked unhappy, but nodded.
"Next, can you take a break from classes?"
"Not really. And I have office hours, too."
I shook my head. "Show up for class late. Cancel a few, if you can. Don't move around alone, don't go anywhere after dark by yourself. Don't do office hours. Ask people to call if they need you. Posting the hours you'll actually be somewhere is, well, putting out a sign telling him where you're going to be."
Amanda was pale, but her narrow jaw jutted forward. "I can't stop everything I'm doing. I won't stop living. I refused to do that after Mom died and I'm not going to do it now."
I held up a hand. "You're not. We're just going to take some precautions."
She paused, then said, "We?"
"We. For now. Retirement is turning out to be pretty lousy and this gives me an excuse to leave the house. There are some things I can do, folks I can call. This is no accident. Someone is doing it. Therefore, we can make them stop." I smiled. "I still have a little juice."
"I…can't pay you much--" she began.
I stopped her. "Let's let my pension cover this. I think we owe you one. The least I can do is ask a couple questions, give you some advice. If you need me to break somebody's arm, then we'll talk price."
"I hope your rates are low," she said, her smile tentative. "What's your first move?"
"We've narrowed it down to Michael Wheeler or the rest of humanity," I said. "So let's start with Wheeler."
ii.
There were points in life, he'd come to realize, that offered moments of absolute choice. The proverbial fork in the road. Either you did this thing or you didn't. Life would be this way...or that way. Compressed intervals of time that, before they turned up, meant you lived and acted
"We should be so lucky," I said. My breath steamed in the air and the sky was getting gray. "All right, we've got a couple possibilities. One, Wheeler's lived a quiet life raising pigs in Idaho and one day decides twelve years later is as good a time as any to risk jail time by coming back and throwing carnations at you."
"Or, he's wanted to stalk me this whole time, but been stuck somewhere else for twelve years."
"Like where?" I asked.
"I don't know. Overseas? The military?"
A bus passed us, drowning out conversation. Bored looking passengers stared out of the windows. I waited until it got to the end of the street. "First one, no. You can get a plane any day of the week from most countries and it didn't take him twelve years to save money for a flight to DC. Second one, no. Unless we're talking the French Foreign Legion, soldiers still get leave, still get time off. It isn't prison, even if it feels like it."
"You said there were a couple of possibilities."
"Two. It's someone else entirely."
"It has to be Michael. I never told anyone about the flowers," she said. "You didn't even know."
"Sure, you never told anyone. But what if he did? He was such a smug prick, it's hard to believe he didn't confide in a buddy, a girlfriend, a coworker. This thing with the flowers didn't surface during the investigation or trial, so he knew we never found out about them. It would've been a tiny victory for him. Like he pulled one over on all of us. Guys like him would brag about something like that."
Her shoulders slumped. "So where does that leave me? It might be Michael or it might not. My life might be in danger or it might be a prank by some copycat sicko that wants to torture me about my mom's death."
I hesitated, then reached out and patted her shoulder. I'm not good at comforting people, but I've seen it done before. "First things first. You still at your apartment?"
She shook her head. "No. I freaked out as soon as I saw the flower. I packed a bag and spent the night at a friend's place."
"You've been there since?" I asked.
"Yes."
"All right, find another friend. Don't go there directly. Catch the Metro, grab a cab, whatever. Even better, switch a couple times. Don't just walk there. All right?"
She looked unhappy, but nodded.
"Next, can you take a break from classes?"
"Not really. And I have office hours, too."
I shook my head. "Show up for class late. Cancel a few, if you can. Don't move around alone, don't go anywhere after dark by yourself. Don't do office hours. Ask people to call if they need you. Posting the hours you'll actually be somewhere is, well, putting out a sign telling him where you're going to be."
Amanda was pale, but her narrow jaw jutted forward. "I can't stop everything I'm doing. I won't stop living. I refused to do that after Mom died and I'm not going to do it now."
I held up a hand. "You're not. We're just going to take some precautions."
She paused, then said, "We?"
"We. For now. Retirement is turning out to be pretty lousy and this gives me an excuse to leave the house. There are some things I can do, folks I can call. This is no accident. Someone is doing it. Therefore, we can make them stop." I smiled. "I still have a little juice."
"I…can't pay you much--" she began.
I stopped her. "Let's let my pension cover this. I think we owe you one. The least I can do is ask a couple questions, give you some advice. If you need me to break somebody's arm, then we'll talk price."
"I hope your rates are low," she said, her smile tentative. "What's your first move?"
"We've narrowed it down to Michael Wheeler or the rest of humanity," I said. "So let's start with Wheeler."
ii.
There were points in life, he'd come to realize, that offered moments of absolute choice. The proverbial fork in the road. Either you did this thing or you didn't. Life would be this way...or that way. Compressed intervals of time that, before they turned up, meant you lived and acted
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