37

Matt yanked the black watch cap down over his forehead, though it was unlikely anyone would recognize him later, even if they did see him in this parking lot outside Holly’s building. Only one person in Boston would know his name, anyway—well, two—but say Holly Neff walked right up to his rental car window. So what, really? He would play it by ear.

Wonder why she’d left Springfield at ten o’clock last night?

She had a nice spot here, by the harbor. Boats and stuff. Seagulls. He’d driven all the way to Springfield, finally gotten to the hotel, bullshit bullshit, then had to drive all the way back. Tailing her, keeping a couple of cars between them. Once he’d even passed her. Luckily it was dark. Luckily she hadn’t seemed to notice. Now, she was inside. All he had to do was wait.

If he didn’t die of starvation. Last thing he’d eaten were two bites of that apple at the hotel. And maybe he could take a piss in the bushes or something.

He’d kill for a—

And there she was.

She had her hair stuffed under some sort of stretchy cap, and some black tracksuit with red stripes down the legs. Running shoes. A pair of iPod buds in her ears, the white wires trailing into a pocket in her jacket. A brown mailing envelope or something under her arm.

Shit. If she was going running, she’d be hard to follow. He could get out of his car and kind of stroll behind her. Follow her on foot. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t notice. But she was such a wack, or used to be at least, maybe it wouldn’t matter if she did see him.

She’d see him soon enough.

But Holly was reaching into a pocket and pulling out—keys. Sweet. He watched her walk to her car, that Honda Accord, get in, and back out of her space.

Matt ducked as she went by him. He counted to five, slowly brought his head up, and peered out the window. She was waiting at the stop sign. He turned on the ignition. Maybe she was going to a coffee shop or something? He played that one out. Lots of possible scenarios there. She was clearly not going to church in that getup.

All could have been settled so long ago. My life would be so different. I miss my mother. I miss my family. I miss the life I should have had.

Holly was on the move.

He watched her turn left, blinker on, into the sparse Sunday-morning traffic. Her white car showed through the railings of a rusting metal bridge. Matt shifted hard, banged out of his space, semi-ignored the stop sign, and eased into the flow a couple of cars behind her. She was easy to spot, putting on her turn signals way before she needed to. She turned left, and so did he. Waterfront, more harbor, more boats. He focused on her, but tried to keep his bearings. She turned left, then right again into a parking lot. He slammed on the brakes, hard. Waited, even as his light turned green. The parking lot didn’t look that big.

Some jerk behind him honked. Matt flipped him off.

Then, creeping his car forward, he turned into the lot. South Station Post Office, open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, the sign said. Meters not in effect on Sunday. Why did Holly need a post office?

She parked in a metered spot along the fence by the water. Matt hung back, watching.

Holly got out of the car, crossed the alley, stepped up on the sidewalk. No one else in sight. Lots of empty parking places. She pulled the package from under her arm, stared at it. Touched the front. Turned it over, then turned it over again. Checked something on the outside. He was so close, he could see her frown.

She turned, as if going back to her car. Stopped. Tossed her head. Then, with a long stride and hips swinging, she marched through the glass doors of the building.

Ten minutes later she came out. Without the package.

By then, Matt had a plan.