“Someone’s trying to kill you?” Fenway repeated.
“Keep your voice down,” Maggie hissed.
“What happened?”
“The detective questioned me for a long time. I didn’t know they could keep me in there so long. I mean, they let me stew in the interview room for hours.”
Fenway opened the driver’s side door. “Get in,” she said.
They both got in and closed the doors. The Accord smelled faintly of tacos.
“I answered all of their questions,” Maggie continued. “I don’t know what happened. I told them about the Uber, they disappeared, and they were gone. For a long time.”
Fenway opened her mouth, then shut it quickly.
“The detective came back in and told me I was free to go for now, but not to leave town.”
“That’s probably a good idea.”
“I mean, where am I supposed to go?” Maggie shrugged. “I have—I have a job. I was supposed to be at practice today. I was gonna go right back to practice—maybe I could get in a half hour, or forty-five minutes if traffic wasn’t bad. I even called an Uber to get down there.”
“So what happened?”
“I was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for my ride.”
“Even in this rain?”
“Well, excuse me for feeling sorry for myself,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes. “Yes, in the rain. Anyway, this white Corolla guns it and heads right for me.”
“A white Corolla?”
“Yeah—it looked a lot like the one Annabel drove last night.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?”
“No—I jumped out of the way. The car went up on the sidewalk, then it skidded around the corner and was gone. It must have missed me by only a couple of inches.”
Fenway’s eyes went wide. “Somebody just tried to run you over?”
“Yeah, and in front of the sheriff’s office. How screwed up is that?”
“You’re sure it was a white Corolla?”
“I’m pretty sure. It’s getting dark, but it was a small white sedan. I saw the Toyota logo on it.”
Fenway tried to remember what the Corolla in the parking garage had looked like, then snapped her fingers. “Nevada license plate?”
“I didn’t see it.”
Fenway turned on the engine. “All right. All right. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Maggie nodded, her green eyes wide. “Do you think they’ll recognize me?”
“They?”
“Whoever’s trying to kill me.”
Fenway appraised Maggie: her black-and-gold tracksuit was eye-catching. If someone had wanted to hurt Maggie, the tracksuit was a dead giveaway.
Fenway popped the trunk, got out of the car, and rummaged through a box in the trunk. She pulled out a sweatshirt, light blue with Western Washington on the front. A pair of gray socks. A pair of sweatpants, the hideous ones she had bought in Los Angeles two months before—they were so ugly, they’d never even made it inside her apartment. Aha—her Boston Red Sox cap.
Fenway closed the trunk and got back in the car, handing the sweatshirt and cap to Maggie. “Might be sweaty from a workout, but at least it won’t be glaringly obvious you’re wearing your tracksuit.”
“Thank you,” Maggie mumbled, taking off the jacket of her tracksuit and putting on the college sweatshirt. Then she pulled her brown hair into a ponytail through the back of the Red Sox cap and put it on. She ran her hands along the brim of the cap.
“Is there a hole in this cap?”
Fenway grimaced and nodded. “Oh—yeah, sorry.”
“Is it a bullet hole?”
“The story sounds more interesting than it is.”
Fenway backed out of the space, and soon they were pulling out of the parking garage and driving down Broadway.
“Where do you think I’ll be safe?”
“I think the sheriff—” Then Fenway stopped. Maggie was targeted in front of the sheriff’s office. Maybe it was a brazen attempt to harm Maggie.
Maggie pulled the cap low over her eyes as they drove past the sheriff’s cruiser.
“How sure are you that the white Corolla was the same one Annabel drove?” Fenway asked.
“I’d, uh, already had a couple of drinks when Annabel and I went to dinner. It looked familiar, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Do you know who drives the Corolla most often?”
“Training camp only started today. I think Annabel was the first one to drive it.”
“Annabel checked it out Thursday night?”
“Maybe. The sign-up sheet is in the security office. Or maybe Coach Sunday has it. Anyone can borrow the car.”
“Players? Assistant coaches?”
“Sure, although I think the coaches have their own cars.”
“What about the owner?”
“Why would Sandra Christchurch take a Corolla when she literally has a fleet of cars?”
“If she wants to run someone over. Or hire someone to do it.”
Maggie looked out of the side of her eye at Fenway. “You think it was Ms. Christchurch?”
“I’m not ruling anything out.”
“Maybe—maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it was a prank.”
“Maybe.” But Fenway knew it wasn’t a prank. Somebody was targeting Maggie.
And so close to the sheriff’s office, too. Fenway was sure there were cameras outside the sheriff’s office, and those recordings could confirm whether Maggie was telling the truth about the Corolla almost running her over. That shouldn’t be hard to prove.
She tapped her phone. “Call Sarah.”
The phone rang. and Fenway heard the sound of Sarah’s phone picking up.
“Hi, Fenway. Forget something?”
“No—we just had an incident right in front of the sheriff’s office.”
A sharp intake of breath. “What happened?”
Fenway paused, the gears turning in her head. “I’ve been told a pedestrian was almost run over. Is there any way you can get camera footage of it?”
“I’ll do my best. You said it happened now? Did you see it?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago.” Fenway glanced over at Maggie, who pointed up. “Scratch that—probably closer to twenty or thirty. If you find the footage, send it to me.”
“Will do.” A pause. “Are you okay, Fenway?”
“I’m fine.”
“All right. Do you want to head back into the office so you can see the video for yourself?”
“I can’t do that right now. Think you can send it to my phone?”
“Well—I can send it to our encrypted storage, then send you the link. I know it’s a pain in the ass to look at it through your phone, but you might be able to do it.”
“All right. Thanks, Sarah.” She hung up.
Fenway glanced in the rearview mirror. The last of the gray light, filtering through the clouds, was disappearing. The rain made it even harder to see. A few pairs of lights reflected in her rearview mirror.
“Why would anybody want to run me over?” Maggie’s voice was small.
“Maybe whoever killed Coach Levinson thinks you might know something.”
“What are you talking about? You all think I did it.”
“Not all of us.”
Maggie looked at Fenway. “Not you?”
Fenway scratched her head, her fingers coming away damp from her wet hair. She didn’t want to tell her, but she couldn’t see any way around it. “No, I don’t think you did it.”
“Why not?” Maggie’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.
“I guess I need to explain.” Fenway paused, thinking of how best to phrase it. “My boyfriend is a private investigator. And his client thinks you’re having an affair. I was—uh—helping him out with the case.”
Maggie sank down in her seat. “Your boyfriend is a P.I.?”
“Uh—yeah, he is.”
Maggie covered her face with her hands. “He works for Coach Flash’s wife, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t—” Fenway had said too much already. “I don’t believe you’re having an affair with the person you’ve been accused of having an affair with.” There. Was that convoluted enough?
“But I was sleeping with—oh. So not his wife.” She rocked slightly in the seat. “I don’t—I don’t want—it’s hard to explain. Coach Flash and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”
“You’re not the first person he’s done this to,” Fenway said quietly.
“Annabel,” Maggie whispered. “She was telling me the truth?”
“I think so. And from what I gather, it’s more than the two of you.”
“I—” Maggie’s mouth dropped open, then she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s true. Coach Flash believes in me as a player. No one else does.”
“A lot more people believe in you than you think,” Fenway said. “I talked to everyone on the team today. They all believe you can take this team to the championship.”
Maggie was quiet.
“You don’t need Coach Flash to scream at you in front of everyone. It doesn’t make you a better player. You had two clean sheets in a row last year when Gabriela Fortuna was injured, didn’t you?”
Maggie said nothing.
Fenway looked at her out of the corner of her eye.
A tear slid down Maggie’s cheek. “I just want to play soccer,” she murmured.
Fenway looked in her rearview mirror again. The two sets of headlights were the same—they’d followed her from the parking garage. Fenway exited the freeway at Estancia Canyon, and both cars followed.
It might have been a coincidence.
Fenway had to make a decision—the turn for her apartment was coming up.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and drove past her turn.
The two cars followed.
She turned down a side street. The car directly behind her kept going straight. But the car behind that one turned with her.
It was a small sedan—a light color, but in the darkness, it was hard to tell whether it was white—or whether it was a Corolla.
Still, that was one coincidence too many.
She’d been for a run on these side streets many times.
At the stop sign, she turned left.
“Nice and easy,” she muttered, watching the sedan behind her turn also.
“Where are we going?” Maggie said.
“I think we’re being followed.”
“What?”
“I said, I think we’re—”
“I heard you! What do I need to do?” The terror crept into Maggie’s voice.
“Pull your cap down low over your face—and sit down in the seat a little bit more.”
“Will that help?”
“If they’re following us, I think they already know it’s you.” Fenway pushed herself more upright in the seat. “Hang on. I’ll try to lose them.”
Fenway turned left again, a slow turn around the corner—then when the Accord was slightly out of view of the tailing car, she smashed her right foot all the way to the floor.
The Accord lurched forward, then kept going—fifty, then sixty miles per hour. She blew through the stop sign—no cross traffic, thank God—onto Estancia Canyon Road and barreled toward the freeway.
In her rearview mirror, she saw the white sedan also stop and speed out onto the street, narrowly missing an SUV.
“Yep,” Fenway said. “We’re definitely being followed.”
“Can’t you call somebody?”
“Good idea. Hold down the voice activation key on the center console.”
Maggie did as instructed. Two fast beeps.
“Call Dez.”
The phone began to ring. On the second ring, Dez picked up.
“You did talk to McVie, didn’t—” said Dez.
“Someone tried to run over Maggie in front of the sheriff’s office about a half hour ago.”
“Somebody tried to—what?”
“I’ve got Maggie in the car, and we’re being followed—maybe the same car that tried to run her over.”
“What—”
“I think it’s a white Toyota Corolla.”
“Isn’t it the same make and model—”
“As the car registered to the Neons? Yes.”
“Where are you now?”
“Estancia Canyon Road, heading east. I’m about to get on the freeway. We’ll be safer if we’re around a lot of other people.” Fenway swallowed hard. “I hope.”
“No high-speed chases,” Dez said.
Fenway’s mind raced. “I’ll take Ocean Highway south toward Santa Barbara, then go as fast as I can in the left lane. Hopefully I lose my tail. But if there’s a white Corolla following me, I want a cruiser to pull them over.”
The stoplight ahead of Fenway, just before the Ocean Highway on-ramp, turned yellow.
“Oh, shit,” Fenway mumbled.
“What is it?”
“I’m not stopping.” Fenway maneuvered into the empty left lane and punched the accelerator. “Hang on, Maggie.”
“Fenway, don’t—”
The light turned red.