Rear view, p.2
Rear View, page 2
“Two hundred meters,” Alec said. “One hundred… Fifty.”
I snapped the wheel, steering us inside, then followed it down, tires shrieking from the speed as I went deeper. I didn’t panic. I knew the car’s limits—had lived for the rush when I’d tested them with Alec a shit ton before.
Sean pulled his balaclava tighter. “They’ve got cameras down here, man!”
“X took them out,” Alec said when he twisted to look through the back window.
The stairs to street level sat thirty feet ahead.
“The cops’ll block the exits,” Sean said. “We’re fucking trapped.”
My hard stare met Alec’s. “Not we.” I dropped my foot down, locking the brakes up. Their hands shot out, bracing themselves against the hard stop.
I unclipped Alec’s seat belt. “Get movin’.”
His nod was tight. “I’ll see you on the other side.” He whipped his door open and launched out. Sean cursed and followed tight behind. They kept low as they ran and ducked behind a car, tearing their balaclavas off and stuffing them away before they bolted for the stairs and outta sight.
Thank Christ. I could handle my life being blown apart, but not Alec’s. Never fuckin’ Alec’s.
Red and blue lights dusted the concrete walls, gaining on me. I punched the gas again, circling down, down, down, until I hit the dead end at the bottom of the lot and stopped, cornering myself. The cops caught up, parking at forty-fives to block me in, then flew from their vehicles, yelling instructions to each other on positioning, guns drawn.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR AND PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM,” a female cop yelled.
So, I did, ’cause it was the only way.
Chapter One
Present Day
Ryah
“Edgewater Police Department, how can I direct your call?” the man on the other end of the line said. He sounded pleasant…enough. As pleasant as anyone who dealt with the public could be, I guessed.
The pit in my stomach knotted. “Could I please speak to Officer Maynard?”
My best friend and roommate, Zoya Bakshi, tagged along while I aimed for the psych building on the U of E’s campus, because Professor Charles Barlowe, my thesis adviser and de facto counselor—whether I wanted it or not—did not like to be kept waiting.
The sun died on the campus’s horizon, its long shadows running toward the night. My body was tense, my gaze flicking frenetically from face to face. I might’ve mistrusted people, but I liked crowds. Safety in numbers, and all. Well, maybe not safety. But at the very least, witnesses.
Our boots crunched on the snow as Zoya shoved her ear to my phone, not so subtly eavesdropping.
“Who’s speaking?” the man asked.
Ugh. I hated this part. All of it, really, but the second Maynard heard my name… “Ryah Nolan.”
“Please hold.” There was a click, then a weird bonging dial tone.
The frigid February wind cut across campus like a knife. The old brick buildings acted like a funnel, blasting it along the walkways. It stung when it bit at me, undoubtedly turning my cream-colored skin a bitter shade of red.
I tucked my plaid scarf inside my oat-colored wool coat. It was loose, not overly flattering, but that was by design. Wallpaper. That’s what I was. Not what I wanted to be, but I hadn’t gotten what I’d wanted since he’d forced himself into my life.
Zoya pulled back, her soft hazel eyes fierce when they pierced mine. “You got this. Advocate for yourself.”
“Yeah,” I uttered.
“Very convincing,” she deadpanned, throwing the loose Dutch braid of her stunning black hair over her shoulder. Seriously, it nearly reached her ass, was sleek, shiny and made me envious to my bones. “Maybe try that again with a little more oomph.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Stand tall, girl.”
“Yeah!” I said, voice high in mock excitement.
She shook her head. “That was pathetic.”
I offered her a toothy smile. We veered around a couple energetically making out in the center of the path, and a pang of jealousy burned my stomach. What I wouldn’t give…
The line clicked in, and a gruff voice came over the speaker. “Officer Maynard.”
“Hello, this is—”
He exhaled a heavy breath. “I know who you are, Ryah.”
Zoya scowled and flipped off my phone.
Was that just who Maynard was? Or was that just who he was with me? I’d specifically requested him for my case after he’d done a talk about women’s safety on campus. Worst decision ever, seeing as he was an “all talk, no action” kinda man.
My throat closed over. I loathed these calls. Loathed second-guessing myself and being dismissed like I was the problem, instead of the guy who’d perpetrated everything in the first place.
Stand tall. A bit tough for my five-foot-four butt to do. Regardless, I repeated it in my head like a rallying cry—a weak and feebly whispered one, but a rallying cry, nonetheless. In truth, if it wasn’t for Zoya, I might never have bothered with the calls at all. It wasn’t like they’d ever helped.
I cleared my throat. “I wondered if there’s been any progress on my case?” I asked, my tone meeker than I intended.
Zoya gave a thumbs-up.
“If there was anything new, I’d call you, Miss Nolan,” Maynard said.
My frown was deep.
“Without a name or description, we have nothing to go on.” Maynard was older, close to retirement, a fact he’d shared countless times before. As if he’d been dry begging to be left alone. “Unless you’re calling to offer new information, please, just let me do my job.”
Zoya’s hand twitched like she itched to grab the phone.
I internally scoffed. Do his job? It’d been two years since he’d shown up. Two years in which the EPD had made less than zero progress. Not even a restraining order.
Stand tall. Stand tall. Stand tall!
“I forwarded you more of his messages.” Tugging a pen from the front pocket of my hand-me-down leather messenger bag, I chewed its cap. A chunk of the blue plastic broke off and scraped against my tongue. I gagged when it slid down my throat.
Zoya smacked the pen away from my mouth.
The clanking of keys carried through the speaker. “And I’ve added them to your file, but ultimately, they give us nothing.”
Thought it gave them evidence, but okay.
“Cybercrimes are difficult, Miss Nolan. The culprits are often never found. Without something tangible, we’re dead in the water.”
But it hadn’t been just a cybercrime, a fact he knew well. “Can’t you run one of those scans on my phone?”
“We’ve discussed this, Miss Nolan. We don’t have the resources to scan the phone of every person being harassed.”
Harassed? That’s what he thought this was? Harassment? My mouth thinned into a hard line. “I didn’t say—”
“Do you have any more leads to offer?”
“Thought finding leads was his responsibility,” Zoya mumbled.
I used to think that too, but I’d given up that naive trust a long time ago. My gaze fell, along with my shoulders. “No.”
“Then I need to go. If anything changes, let me know.” There was a shuffling on the line. “You have a nice day, Miss Nolan.”
The call ended.
Zoya straightened. “What a dick.”
“The dickiest,” I said, then shoved the device away. “I don’t even know why I bother anymore.”
“Because, in your own words, you”—she did air quotes to mimic me—“‘need a paper trail.’”
I shook my head. Lots of good it did me. Rubbing the back of my neck, I pulled out my notebook and scribbled everything down. Simple details to log the information. Date. Time. Contact made. What was discussed. I’d transfer it to my computer later, but it was the same every time. And it was always the same outcome: nothing.
Tears pricked the back of my eyes.
Her expression softened. “I hate this, Ryah.”
She hated it? I wanted my life back. Wanted to stop looking over my shoulder. Wanted to trust and live and breathe again. But it wasn’t her fault. Only a handful of people knew what’d happened; the rest, including my parents, were oblivious. They’d noticed me retreat. Noticed my clothes change. Watched the light leave my eyes until I’d withered and shriveled and faded to nothing. Because that’s what I’d needed to become.
Nothing.
Mom had pushed, but the last thing I wanted was for her to worry. I’d sworn my younger brother, Miles, to secrecy, and he’d been good on his word.
My phone buzzed and I eyed the screen. I bit my lip, a smile pulling my cheeks when I spotted the name there.
Christian: Hey. You around?
Me: Meeting with Barlowe, then headed home. Everything okay?
My heart thudded against my ribs, heat crawling up my face while I waited for a response. And waited.
Zoya arched a brow. “What is it?”
I traced my finger along the edge of my screen. “Christian.”
Things with him were…tangled. We’d been friends through high school, then started dating three years earlier, in undergrad. We’d lasted all of fourteen months before he ended it, saying he loved me but just didn’t see a future for us. Still, to me, his reasoning had been…suspect.
“Oh?” She pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket, and unwrapped it, displaying the henna that crawled up her light, sepia-toned hands—a remnant from her mother’s birthday celebration three days earlier. It disappeared up her arm and under the sleeve of her down jacket. Her gold bracelets jangled when she shoved a sizable bite in her mouth, then said around it, “What’d he say?”
Zoya wasn’t a fan of my ex. Hadn’t really held back about it, not that she’d needed to, seeing as we’d known each other since third grade.
“He’s wondering if I’m free.”
Her frown was deep. “Why?”
“Does he need a reason?”
She shook her head. “No, but he never asks without one.”
“I’m choosing not to be offended by that.”
“Choose away!” Grinning wide, she took another bite. “I’m betting it’s trouble in paradise.”
Christian Fellows had been on-again, off-again with his girlfriend, Chloe, for a while, and he did have patterns. It’d stung when he’d eventually moved on—a lot. Yes, it’d been a while since we’d split, but my still being entrenched in his life meant I hadn’t really let go. I bitterly snatched the rest of the bar from Zoya’s grasp and stuffed it into my mouth.
She stared at me, slack-jawed. “Thievery.”
I made a show of swallowing as my long, toffee-brown hair whipped over my face and into my mouth. I spit it out as my foot slid over an icy patch on the cement and shot to the side. I squeaked, arm flying out to steady myself.
“Jeez, some salt would be nice,” Z said.
Indeed. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it, seeing as they were one of the top-tier Canadian schools, and being West Coast meant it was ludicrously expensive to boot. Without my scholarship and TA position, the place never would’ve been in the cards for me. It wasn’t that my parents were broke, but my brother, Miles, had played competitive hockey since he was little. A goaltender, at that. So, every spare penny the family had was funneled into his dream. He deserved it. At twenty, he’d earned his way into the Major Junior League as captain of the Edgewater Sharks. And I’d been smart enough to get a full ride, so it’d worked out in the end.
I checked my watch. Late, I was late. “Oh, shit! I gotta go.” I skipped back a step.
“I’ve got my stats exam tomorrow, so there’s a study group tonight,” Zoya reminded me. Math and its offshoots were easy for her, but when it came to her finance degree, she’d accept nothing but perfection. “Don’t panic when I come in late.”
My stomach dropped. Right. I hated that I hated being alone, but I’d never let her know that, ’cause Zoya was the best kind of friend. The year before, she’d canceled a date with a guy she’d been pining over for months when I’d started having panic attacks. Not that I didn’t appreciate the love, because I did. So freaking much. But I didn’t want her dropping her life for a sad sack like me. No doubt, she’d do it again. It was bad enough one of us suffered. I wouldn’t take her down with me…more, anyway.
She jabbed a finger my way. “Text when you get home!”
“Yes, Mother.” I would. I needed people to know when and where I was—or wasn’t, as it were.
“Rude, Ry. I’m the sexy aunt.”
“Hands down.” I waved. “Love you!”
“Love you too.”
I took off, gasping while I ran, legs and lungs burning. People side-eyed me as I darted between them.
Bursting into the Ansel Psychology Centre, I scurried down the hall, boots squeaking loudly over the off-white linoleum floor.
My professor’s faux-wood office door was closed. The light inside illuminated the white letters that spelled out Doctor Barlowe on its frosted glass. Slowing, I offered a quick knock, then stumbled inside. A scowl occupied his already stern face. His russet-brown eyes narrowed while they surveyed me. Agitated? Annoyed? Somewhere in between? I couldn’t tell.
I flinched. “Sorry,” I said through a pant, then bent at the waist to catch my breath. “I got hung up.”
His shoulder-length bronze hair hung straight and loose, and his mouth thinned into a slash across his face. “I don’t appreciate my time being wasted, Ryah.”
I got it. Really, I did. I hated being late, but also, it was four minutes. Besides, it wasn’t like it was a habit. I couldn’t actually remember the last time it happened, but he appreciated supplication. And if it meant getting out of there in time, I’d give it.
“Sorry,” I said again. “We can reschedule, if you want.”
He was like that. Rigid. The man was somewhere in his late thirties, but he was old-school in his practice.
“No. You’re already here.” He crossed his legs and linked his fingers over his knee. “I only grant my time to a select few students as a courtesy, Miss Nolan. All I ask is for you to respect it.”
A strand of guilt tugged my chest. That was fair. I straightened, and smoothed a hand over my coat before I unbuttoned it.
He gestured to the threadbare black chair opposite his desk. The wood was old and yellowed, the same shade as sun-aged pine. His computer was top of the line, though, with two fancy, state-of-the-art-looking screens that swiveled left to right. Up and down. I wouldn’t have thought the psych department had the budget for such elaborateness but there it sat.
“How’s your progress coming?” he asked.
Setting my bag down, I pulled out my draft and passed it over. Barlowe was…particular with his requirements. Emailing addendums to my thesis or questions back and forth would’ve saved weeks and countless trees, but he preferred paper and old-fashioned face time.
He scanned it, flipping through the pages as I sat there, practically twiddling my thumbs.
My foot bounced while I itched to pull up the Edgewater City Transport app. If I got out of there soon, I could catch the 95 back to my apartment. That bus meant a twenty-five-minute ride straight home. Safer. But if things ran too late, I’d be stuck with an hour ride, multiple transfers and two more-than-shady stations.
Barlowe gave a lone nod. “I’ll make my notes and return them to you later this week.” Setting my papers down, he eyed me. “And how have things been with him?”
My throat tightened. I didn’t wanna talk about it—hated talking about it. But he’d seen the aftermath. Had been there when I’d received the worst of the threats. Under any other circumstances, I’d never have shared it with him, but it was kind of a right place, wrong time deal. Regardless, he was a psychologist, and he had been helpful.
I checked my watch. “The same.”
He stood and circled his desk to take the chair beside me. Angling forward slightly, he adjusted the legs of his navy corduroy pants. “And how are you doing?”
My gaze flicked to the door. I just wanted to go but I’d wasted his time once already. “Okay. I’m just trying to focus on classes to keep my mind off it.” As if that were even possible.
“Is it helping?”
I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Some days.” I exhaled and sagged back into the seat. “I just…hate feeling like this.”
“Like what?”
I tugged my loose and decidedly unflattering jeans. Intentionally unflattering. “Trapped.”
He scratched the side of his jaw through the inch-long hair of his beard. “That’s reasonable. But when in doubt, consider your safety above all else. Don’t put yourself at unnecessary risk.”
It was good advice. Problem was, following it was the exact reason I felt the way I did. I sighed and I checked my watch again.
His mouth thinned. “Am I keeping you from something, Miss Nolan?”
Ugh. I was on a roll. Downhill. Into a radioactive dumpster. I winced and opened my mouth to offer yet another apology.
A knock sounded at the door.
Barlowe was silent for one second. Two. The tension ratcheted up. “Come in,” he called.
A pretty little blonde student, maybe a year or two younger than my twenty-three years, poked her head in the door.
“I know it’s late, Dr. Barlowe but I, um, wondered if I could speak with you about something?”
His expression morphed, that professional mask slipping into place. “Of course.” Turning to me, he asked, “Was there anything else I could help you with?”
“Nope,” I grabbed my bag and hopped from my seat. Eager. Too eager. I reeled myself back. “I’m good. Thank you.” With that, I left, barreling across campus to the bus stop and praying I wasn’t too late.
* * *
The hum of the 95 bus was loud. My headphones were in, but no music played. Music was a distraction from noise, and I needed to be aware. Still, not wearing them sometimes invited strangers to talk, and I didn’t talk to strangers.
My stop approached and I pressed the button. It dinged, and several seconds later, the driver veered toward the curb. When the door squealed open, I stepped out into the night and aimed for my building.
