THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-FIVE

THE FOG SO THICK I can't see anything before me but faint shadows, the ground beneath me uneven and treacherous, while I search for him, call out, David, David, and then I feel a pressure in my chest, my breathing growing shallow, David, David, David —

My eyes open into the large brown eyes of Lulu, lying on my chest, her nose sniffing my mouth, small whines escaping her. I hear the growls and churns within her skinny midsection. She's always had a sensitive stomach. She does this to me a lot. She needs to go outside in the middle of the night.

I pat the bed for my phone and squint at it, not having my contacts in. It's just past three thirty in the morning. David's body rises and falls in a soothing rhythm next to me. The house is quiet with the exception of my little dog's whines.

"Okay, already," I whisper, causing Lulu to pop to attention and hop off the bed. I clutch my phone while my feet find my slippers, basically fuzzy sandals, on the floor.

Down the stairs we go, my right hand on the railing, my left shining the phone's flashlight on the stairs while the remnants of the dream cling to me like cobwebs. At the turn of the staircase, I glance out the large picture window overlooking the intersection of Cedar and Wilbur. The trees quiver in the wind. Shadows move about.

I can't put my finger on it. But something feels wrong.

I'm wearing only a long pajama top, wishing immediately that I'd thrown on something else, because the downstairs feels drafty. I punch in the alarm code to deactivate the alarm and open the back door for Lulu to go out. The harsh air smacks me, so I step back, praying this will be the only time tonight that Lulu has an emergency.

I glance over to the living room, where the halogen light we installed over the baby grand piano is on, something I've talked to Grace about. And the piano's fallboard is up; I've told Grace time and again to pull it down over the keys when she's done practicing to avoid dust buildup.

I close the fallboard gently over the keys and walk over by the window to flip off the light switch. The little corner of the room falls dark. I startle when I see, through the window, a car parked up the street on Wilbur.

Nothing unusual about people parking their cars along the street, but this car, some kind of boxy SUV, is clearly running. Its headlights are off, but there's no missing the fumes from the exhaust. On a night like this, with temperatures below freezing, it would be impossible to sit in a car without the heat running.

I check my phone again to make sure I have this right — it's half past three in the morning. So this isn't a parent picking up a kid for before-school athletic practice or a music lesson. This isn't even someone doing a paper route.

This is a car trying to minimize its presence with the lights off, a person sitting idly in a car that is directly facing my house.

Lulu barks to be let in. I rush to the door, let her back in, close the door and lock it, and punch in the code to reactivate the alarm.

Then I return to the window, this time pulling back the curtain entirely so I have a clear look. I can't possibly make out the license plate or the make or model of the vehicle, much less see the occupants.

I think of shouting upstairs to David, but the kids might hear. I don't want to leave this spot at the window again. I somehow feel safer with my eyes on that car.

So I decide on a compromise.

On my phone, I find David on my favorites list and punch the link, then bring the lit-up phone to my ear, making sure that my actions are clear and visible to the driver up the street as the phone rings.

In an instant, the SUV whips backward, does a 180, then heads north on Wilbur, away from me.

I don't come close to getting a license plate. I don't know what kind of car it was or have any identifiers. I don't know who was inside the car or what they want. I only know one thing for certain.

That car was definitely watching our house.