didnât want to hear any more. I had to get away from this man. I said, âMake an appointment,â and pulled my door shut. I started my car and drove away. I checked my mirror as I drove out of the lot. He was still standing where Iâd left him ⦠watching.
I drove two blocks and then, on an impulse, I took a right and circled back. I decided that if I could spot him getting into a car, I was going to follow him. When I reached a corner where I could observe the parking lot Iâd just left, I saw him. He was standing on the far side of the lot, at least two hundred yards away, but I could see he was looking in my direction.
He waved.
I felt like a fool. For some reason, he had expected me to double back, and heâd been standing there, waiting.
He walked to a vehicle and got in. As it drove off, I saw that it was a white SUV.
Something about the manâs movements nagged at me, but at first I was too distracted by what had just happened. After a few seconds, it dawned on me.
He had entered the vehicle on the passenger side.
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6
Two days later, I set my alarm for five, got up, and drove to the UF campus for a morning run in the open air. The Lake Alice loop was only three and a half milesâshorter than my usual five-mile treadmill runâbut at least the time and place had the advantage of being randomly chosen. Iâd spent the last thirty-six hours brooding over the events outside Sam Graysonâs building. I didnât like the feeling that I was being watched, even if it was by a man who had helpfully broken cover to save me from being maimed or killed.
More than that, I didnât like the idea that the man seemed to know what I was going to do before I knew it myself.
The parking lot at the Baughman Center on Museum Road was deserted. I drove through the lot and parked in an unpaved area under some trees. I went through my usual stretching routine, set my watch, and headed off. The run was flat and easy, but it still felt good. Somewhere in the final mile, I passed another runnerâa big guy, built like a linebacker, wearing heavy boots, moving slowly and wheezing like a steam train. Despite my precautions, I half expected to see Marc Hastings leaning against my car when I loped off the Ficke Gardens path and back into the parking area.
But the lot was still empty and I was still alone.
I was walking in circles, cooling down, when I heard the faint sound of my phone ringing. I quickly unlocked my car and retrieved the phone from under the seat. I checked the call display.
Sam Grayson
I answered. âSam?â
I was still breathing hard and Sam must have picked up on it. âIs this a bad time?â
âNo. I just finished the Alice Lake loop. Just catching my breath.â
âYou just finished a run?â
âYeah.â
âGirl, itâs six thirty in the morning! I donât know where you get the juice!â
âYeah ⦠well, along the same lines, I could ask whatâs so important that youâre calling me at this hour.â
âI called to tell you not to come to the office.â
âWhat?â
âI want you to go to the morgue. Speak to Terry Snead.â
âWhy?â
âIâm not sure weâve ever talked about this ⦠itâs a cold case ⦠happened back in the â70s. There was this string of missing women. They were all from around here, all young, in their twentiesââ
My breath stopped in my throat.
ââbut there were never any bodies.â
The sweat from my run went cold on my body. I heard myself ask a question. My voice seemed unconnected and far away. âWhatâs at the morgue?â
âDamnedest thing, Claire! You know the road-widening project theyâre doing down near Bronson? Itâs part of that bypass the DOTâs planning.â
I was vaguely aware of it. âYeah.â
âSome workmen on the site uncovered a
Marion Chesney, M.C. Beaton