Sunday night inches towards dawn. I’m installed in the passenger seat of Dwight’s red Ford Fiesta after he picked me up in the tunnel under the freeway, and I’m filled with a mix of relief and disbelief.
“Where the hell did you get to?” I demand to know.
“I could ask the same of you.”
His voice is cold, and I detect a backbeat of hurt. My incomprehension gives way to guilt. He’d wanted me to wait, and I’d taken off. It is all my fault. He must have been searching for me all over the hospital grounds and the surrounding streets.
Then again, if he was doing that, what were the chances he would find me in that underpass?
My self-reproach hardens over. He wasn’t searching. He was stalking me.
Why didn’t I notice?
The answer is obvious. In all that time I limped down the road, not once d
