Page 47 of Brutal
I turn back to the bartender. “Are you expecting someone?”
“This is a place of business. I expect customers all the time.”
I place my hands on the bar, lean toward him. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. Is it strange for black SUVs to just park across from this place?”
“No.”
“Then why are you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
That’s a lie. His shoulders are pulled in, and his hands are trembling slightly. I’ve interviewed enough people to know nerves when I see them, and this guy is ready to burst. Not good for a barkeep handling glassware.
I straighten. “Thank you.”
I don’t wait for a response. I turn and walk out, keeping my steps steady and controlled as I walk to the lot where my car is parked.
Don’t run.
Don’t rush.
I can feel it, though—that pull between my shoulder blades and the tingling on my neck.
Someone is watching me.
I reach my car and unlock it. My hand slips slightly on the handle before I get the door open. I slide into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and immediately lock it.
Is the SUV still in front of the bar? Still watching?
I start the engine and pull out, not fast enough to draw attention, but not slow either. I check the rearview mirror once.
No SUV.
So he wasn’t after me. Not really. He’s not following me.
But he did see me.
And that feels almost worse.
11
SAMSON
Delaney doesn’t go home.
I know it before the message comes through.
Most people leave my house in predictable ways. They return to what they understand. Reestablish distance between this place and what they perceive as safe. Convince themselves that whatever they felt inside the Vexley walls was their imagination.
Delaney’s smart enough to know the difference between real and imaginary.
Still, I give it time.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
