Page 132 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
When I’m satisfied that I am no longer being followed, I stop at a small deli four blocks down.
I order a sandwich I barely taste, eat it in the car, and check the time.
It isn't in me to return home.
I would rather sit on this side of the city, surrounded by strangers and noise, than re-enter that house with ash tucked behind my teeth.
The hours stretch.
I read nothing.
I write nothing.
I watch the school fence as if it might open early, though it never does.
When the gates finally part, the girls emerge in a wave of plaid skirts and bright backpacks.
They run to me with the kind of joy that cuts me in places no blade ever could.
I fold them into my arms and drive us home, and for the rest of that day, nothing happens.
But the next morning, there is another car, following the same patterns of movement.
I spot it just as I make the last turn into the school lane.
Different model.
Same color.
Same posture.
A vehicle parked not quite like the others, facing the wrong direction, positioned just far enough back to be noticed only by someone looking for it.
I do not speak to the girls on the way in.
My throat is too tight.
This time, I stay in the car.
The engine runs.
The vents blow soft warmth against my ankles.
A man steps out just as the late bell rings.
He wears a navy coat, clean trousers.
He pulls a cigarette from his pocket but never lights it.
He leans against the hood like a man with no obligations, no appointments, no fear of being watched.
Once again, I stay in place until my girls come out.
Then I change tracks on the way home, taking a left I am not supposed to.
The vehicle follows until I turn off onto the estate’s back road.
That is when it disappears.
