The Girl With a Clock for a Heart by Swanson Peter

Author:Swanson, Peter [Swanson, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, thriller, Crime, Suspense, Adult, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780062267511
Goodreads: 18053015
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2014-09-10T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Outside Irene’s building the sky was an electric blue, but the archway was in total darkness. A wind chime that hung from one of the fire escapes chimed tunelessly. Two mounted lights cast thick intersecting shadows across the brick courtyard, and in one of the shadows George thought he saw the silhouetted figure of a man. He stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the night. A Prius zipped silently by on the street, its headlights briefly illuminating the courtyard, enough so that George could tell he was alone.

He started toward his car, alternately telling himself he was being too cautious and not cautious enough. If the fake Donnie Jenks was still around, then why wouldn’t he be here? He’d been here the night before, when he knocked Irene to the ground. If he wanted to get to George, he’d know that this was a likely place for George to show up. George walked a little faster, passing a house with wide-open windows, America’s Funniest Home Videos blaring from a monstrous flat-screen TV. When the sound faded, he thought he heard an echo of his footsteps behind him. He sped up a little, tilted his head, and felt rather than saw someone behind him. His heart rate seemed to double. The street he’d parked on was coming up on the right; turning onto it would give him a chance to look back and see if there really was someone behind him. He sped up a little more to make the turn, and as he did he looked back as casually as he could. There was someone, about half a block back, who was walking almost listlessly and was partly obscured by the row of trees planted along the sidewalk.

He considered his options. His car was a couple of hundred yards down the street. He could run to it, in the hope that whoever was following him was in even worse shape than he was, or he could keep walking, hoping that it all was just paranoia, that the person behind him was on an evening stroll. But nothing about George’s recent life suggested that he was being overly paranoid about anything. Coming up on his right was a minivan sitting in a driveway in front of a single-family home. Without thinking, he darted behind it and crouched down, hoping he’d done so before his follower reached the corner.

Willing himself to breathe quietly, George listened. The footsteps, loud and with a slight drag on one side, grew louder. He thought he heard a hesitation, as though his follower was suddenly confused about where he’d gone, but the footsteps kept coming. It was dark where George was crouched, but he’d worn a light blue shirt and the minivan was painted a dark metallic gray. He pressed himself into the driver’s-side door, and as his head grazed the door handle a piercing siren erupted from the vehicle, its front and back lights flashing on and off.

Despite the impulse, George neither screamed out loud nor pissed himself.

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