ERICA WANTS OUT OF THE building; it’s not a safe place. She’ll head home and try to gather herself, to figure out what to do next. As she walks out into the plaza, she notices a young man on a bike standing nearby; he has a short beard and is wearing a helmet and dark glasses, obscuring his face. When he sees Erica, he mouths something—he’s talking on an earphone. As she turns north up Sixth Avenue, he gets on the bike, moves into the bike lane, and heads north too. Erica slows down, he slows down. Erica speeds up, he speeds up. She starts to shake, fighting to control her fear, she stops, pretends to look for something in her bag—her hands are trembling—then she quickly looks over: he’s pedaling slowly, watching her, making no pretense. Even though she’s in public, on a busy avenue, Erica feels cornered, her throat tightens, adrenaline surges through her—it’s fight or flight.
Oh look, there’s that nice liquor store, its window filled with beckoning bottles—there’s a bottle of Belvedere! Lovely Belvedere! Her friend. Flight. It’s all too much for her, her crazy, scary life, a snowball that’s turned into an avalanche—but she’s minutes away from relief, comfort, oblivion. She heads toward the liquor store. And then a young girl steps off the curb without looking, is heading right into the crosstown traffic. “Mollie!” her mother screams, racing to catch her, grabbing her hand at the last second, swooping her up in her arms, holding on to her for dear life, loving her, holding her, protecting her from the world and its dangers. That’s what mothers do.
Erica turns away from the liquor store and heads back uptown. She turns west on Fifty-Seventh Street, and the man on the bike does the same. She picks up her pace and reaches her building. Up in her apartment, she crosses to the window and looks down. There he is on the sidewalk across the street, looking up at her.
Erica paces. The falling light was no accident. But if Nylan had wanted to kill her, the light would have dropped three seconds earlier. It was a scare tactic. Just like showing that footage of Jenny. Jenny. They wouldn’t harm her daughter, would they?
Wake up, Erica, of course they would. They’d kill her without blinking.
Erica races to her computer and frantically researches private security firms in the Boston area—she finds one, Sentinel, that’s been around for over a hundred years. She calls and speaks to the president. Then she finds the nearest car rental agency—it’s a Dollar down on Fifty-Second Street—and calls. “This is Erica Sparks. I need a car, any car, as soon as possible. I’m at 457 West Fifty-Seventh Street. I need you to drive the car into the parking garage. I’ll meet you down there. How soon can you be here?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Erica washes off her makeup and changes into jeans, a blouse, and running shoes. She goes to the bedroom window—the man is still down there, still watching her. Around him the crowds stream by, going about their business as if this were just another day, an ordinary day. She goes into the living room and turns on the lights and the television. Then she puts on sunglasses and a baseball cap and heads down to the garage.
They gave her a silver Accord, which is good, nondescript. She pulls the baseball cap low on her forehead and drives out of the garage. Across the street the man with the bike is texting, then he looks back up at her windows.
Erica gets on the West Side Highway and heads north to the Cross Bronx Expressway and then gets on 95 North toward New Haven. She tries to stay at a reasonable speed, but it’s not easy, she’s leaning forward over the wheel, willing the miles to disappear. Every time she turns on the radio, she hears another update on Hurricane Carl—wind speeds are still increasing and it’s expected to make landfall within thirty-six hours. At New Haven she gets on 91 North to Hartford. Her phone rings.
It’s Nylan. Should she answer it? You can’t run from your enemy.
“Nylan.”
“Erica.” There’s a pause, and it’s thick with the unspoken, thick enough to suffocate her. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about that falling light.”
“Accidents happen.”
“They do, don’t they.”
“They do.”
“Listen, this hurricane is shaping up as a major story. I’d like you to go down and cover it.”
“I thought you wanted me in the studio.”
“I don’t want any more wild goose chases. But with a hurricane of this magnitude, our viewers will expect our biggest star on the ground. This could end up bigger than any of us imagine.”
Is this a setup? But she has to maintain her front, she has to stay a pro—and maybe the storm will buy her a little time. “Of course I’ll go.”
“Good girl. And Erica?”
“Yes?”
“Say hi to Jenny for me.”