Death Angel
She had no idea who that someone could be, but she was afraid he, or she, somehow knew who she really was. Her instinct told her to leave Denver as fast as possible, so that’s what she’d done.
She’d bought another secondhand car, headed northeast on the interstate, toward Nebraska, and traded that car in for another as soon as she crossed the state line. Driving long distances had been a challenge, because she tired so easily, but she kept moving steadily eastward until she got to Kansas City. Three interstates came together in the K.C. area, giving her a lot of options if she had to move on. She kind of liked that idea, and somehow she’d ended up getting a job at Glenn’s. She also shelled out the cash needed for a new ID, for Andrea Pearson, so she now had a valid driver’s license in that name-well, as valid as a license could be if the name on it was fake. Her red 2003 Ford Explorer was duly registered to her, and she had insurance on it and everything.
She rented half of a duplex in a run-down neighborhood and actually lived on what she made at Glenn’s. After spending most of her life trying to score all the luxuries she could, she was oddly content with her life, with three smallish rooms in a house with a sagging roof. At least the tenants in the other half of the house weren’t on drugs. Just thinking of her time with Rafael made her feel dirty.
But she still had the two million, or most of it, sitting in the bank. She thought about writing one big check to a charity or something, just to get rid of it, but she couldn’t seem to just do it. What if that was the wrong thing? She wasn’t sure how donating to a charity could be wrong, but what if that wasn’t what she was meant to do with the money? What if there was some other cause she was supposed to give it to, if she could figure out what that cause was? The American Cancer Society, maybe. Or St. Jude’s Hospital. There were a lot of great organizations that could use the money, but she couldn’t work her way past this weird paralysis in decision-making.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her, unless it was a reaction to the trauma. Dr. Meecham had given her some literature on it, and evidently people who had heart surgery often went through some emotional upheaval afterward. Because her case was so extreme, she should probably expect some difficulties in dealing with stuff. She could get through the day, she could handle the physical demands of her job, she could buy groceries and pay her bills, but other than that she wanted to spend her time curled up on her secondhand couch, wrapped in a blanket to keep her warm during the grueling midwestern winter, reading a book from the library. Deciding which books to check out was the toughest decision she could handle.
When her shift at Glenn’s was over and she trudged out into the snow, she wished she could make the decision to move farther south, but hell, winter would be over soon.
Spring might be close, but snow was still falling. The night sky was a thick, dark gray that said more snow was coming. She pulled her thick wool scarf up to cover her head and wrapped the ends around her neck to keep out the icy wind. Lowering her head into the wind, she trudged through the snow toward her red Explorer.
"Hey, Andie."
Turning her head, she recognized Cassie as the woman climbed out of the cab of her Peterbilt. The big diesel engine was running, because a diesel was a bitch to start in cold weather. No matter how much fuel cost, having to pay for a jump-start and then factoring in the time lost meant that the rigs were never cut off during a run.
Inwardly Andie groaned. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about Cassie’s fortune, or lack of it, but other than walking off it didn’t look as if she had any other choice. She actually kind of liked Cassie, so she stopped and waited for her.
Cassie slipped a little bit on the ice, then reached Andie’s side. "Come on, I’ll walk you to your car," she said. "Where is it?"
"Over there," said Andie, indicating the gravel lot off to the side, where the employee’s vehicles wouldn’t get in the way of the big rigs coming in or going out of the truck stop.
"I saw some guy watching you through the windows," Cassie said, pitching her voice low so only Andie could hear her.
Andie skidded to a stop as her heartbeat kicked into a gallop. "A guy? What guy?"
"Just keep walking," said Cassie calmly. "I don’t see him now, but I thought I’d make sure you got to your car okay."
Words failed her, that someone she barely knew would go out of her way to make sure Andie was safe. "I’ll drive you back to your truck," she managed to say. "That way you won’t be in any danger either."
Cassie smiled down at her. She was a tall woman, lean and rangy, and even though she’d exchanged her high heels for boots she was still a good five or six inches taller than Andie. "We women have to watch each other’s asses, toots, and I don’t mean that like I’m hitting on you either."
Andie snorted. She had watched Cassie in action often enough to know that the trucker didn’t swing that way. Immediately her attention switched back to the man Cassie had said was watching her. "What did he look like-that guy? Are you sure he was watching me?"
"Absolutely, positively. He watched you for a good five minutes, going back and forth. As for how he looked, hmm." Cassie thought about it. "Tall and in good shape, but he was wearing a thick coat with the hood up, so that’s about all I can tell you. Even with the coat, though, you could tell he wasn’t a porker or anything."
Most truckers weren’t what you’d call "in good shape," but enough of them came through the truck stop that a guy who took care of himself wasn’t all that unusual. In the four months she’d worked there, Andie had probably seen a couple of hundred who matched that vague description. But none of them would have stood out in the snow watching her; each and every one of them would have come inside, ordered a cup of coffee, tried to talk to her there if he was interested.