I pull
into Shoppers World off Route 9 in Framingham. I score a parking spot
close to the cluster of stores that include Starbucks, Old Navy, and
Taylor Books, the place of the drop. I text the girls to let them
know I’ve arrived at the bookstore. They tell me they’re hanging
out at a fast food joint on Route 30, a five-minute drive from me. I
take a visual sweep of my surroundings, looking for anyone
suspicious. My hands are clammy. I wipe them on my dark jeans,
several times.
At 9:15
p.m., I take a deep breath, calm my nerves, and exit the car with the
big brown paper bag with the handles and a plain, black scarf on top.
I walk at a steady pace, careful not to appear nervous or in a hurry.
I enter the store, and I’m greeted by the smell of new books and an
extensive display of fiction bestsellers. Customers are scattered in
every section of the store. I mentally remind myself not to let my
eyes wander. Look straight ahead. The cameras are embedded in the
ceiling.
I stroll
past the eReader Center, toys, games, and the teen section. I stop in
the diet and nutrition aisle and pretend to browse.
“Can I
help you find something?” I feel my leg muscles tightening, my body
ready to make a run for it but I don’t. A store employee is
assessing me with a forced smile. She is an older lady, perhaps in
her fifties with glasses perched on her nose, and barely-there lips.
“No,
ma’am. Just comparing these diet books.”
The woman
backs up a little and presses her glasses further down her nose. She
takes a good look at me. I mentally scold myself. The diet section?
Really?
“It’s
for a friend,” I explain.
She
raises an eyebrow.
“You
know what, she can come look at the books herself. I’ll probably
get yelled at for picking the wrong one, anyway.”
Another
fake smile.
“Excuse
me.” I ease past the skeptic. I can feel her eyes on me as I head
to the back of the store, my heart hammering in my chest. I must be
giving off that nervous vibe. There was no reason for her to be
suspicious of me. I look back to see if she’s still staring at me.
She is. I have to drop the money before she calls store security. I’m
on her radar. Soon, she will start following me around the shop.
What if
someone already moved the decoy bag? What if people witness the
exchange? It’s now or never. I glance backward again. Ms. Skeptical
has her head down, looking at some paperwork in the customer service
center. I duck into the next aisle and ease my way to the opening
where the newsstand and magazines are. Two people are browsing
through the magazines, their backs to me.
Decision
time. Do I swap the bags while their backs are turned or wait until
they leave? The risk in that strategy is that more customers might
show up in the area, increasing the odds that one of them may take
the bag to the front of the store and explain to the staff that
someone forgot it.
My body
is suddenly freezing. My hands are shaking so badly I’m afraid I’ll
drop the bag. One of the browsers turns around. Her eyes land on me,
then the bag on the bench. “Is this your bag?”
“Um…yeah.
My friend is in the ladies’ room, and she sent me over to get it.”
“Okay.”
She won’t
leave. She just stands there, waiting for me to make a move.
“Are
you going to pick up your friend’s bag or just stare at it?”
I want to
yell at her and tell her that it’s none of her freaking business.
Instead, I take tentative steps toward the bench with the bag
identical to the one growing heavier by the second in my hand. I pick
up the decoy bag loaded with empty shoe boxes and the same black
scarf on top. I turn around and take a slow, tense walk down the
aisle of biographies. I stop in the middle, drop both bags on the
floor, and pretend to browse again.
Painful
seconds tick by. She’s still here. The other customer browsing the
section has left. The store will close soon. My plan is to wait out
Ms. Nosy. Another minute goes by. I can’t stand it. I’m sweating
profusely. I want to take off the baseball cap, but I can’t. I walk
casually to the end of the aisle and take a book off the shelf. I
scan through the pages, unable to absorb any of the content. I then
peek around the corner. She’s gone.
I
exchange the bags and duck back to the biography aisle, careful to
keep my head down, and then slowly backtrack through the store. The
double doors are only a few feet away from me. I’m moments from a
clean getaway when I hear someone call out.
“Miss,
Miss, you forgot something.”
That’s
it. They’re going to haul me off to jail. They’re going to call
the cops if they opened the bag and saw the money. If I make a run
for it, it makes me look guilty, and they’ll definitely call the
police. My only chance of walking away unscathed is to turn around
slowly. Damn it. Miss Nosy again.
“Yes?”
I say, my voice as sweet as honey.
“You
forgot this,” she says, holding up the scarf. “You dropped it on
the way out.”
What did
she do, follow me and pick up the scarf the minute it dropped? I
remind myself to look at the positive side of things. She thinks it
belongs to the empty shoebox bag I’m carrying.
“Thank
you.”
I take
the scarf from her and rocket out of the store. I don’t stop until
I reach my car. I jump inside, dump the bag on the passenger seat and
burn rubber out of the parking lot. Once I’m safely on Route 9, and
certain no one is following me, I pull my phone out of my jacket
pocket. I give a voice command to call Frances.
I let her
know the drop was made.
“I have
an idea,” she says.
“What?”
“Callie
and I should drive to the store to see if anyone walks out with the
bag.”
“Whoa.
That wasn’t part of the plan. I don’t want you guys caught in the
middle of this. She could be dangerous. She could have another
accomplice. There are too many unknowns, Frances. It's a good idea
but too risky.”
“Okay.
We’ll meet you at the house then.”
I know
she’ll go against my advice. I don’t have the energy to argue
further.
I make a
second call, to Ty, and I leave him a message.
***
“We got
there too late,” Frances says. “It was ten minutes before closing
when we got to the store, and mostly employees were still around. The
bag was gone.”
“She
must have been watching me from somewhere,” I say.
Callie
concurs.
We’re
on the sofa in my bedroom, recounting the evening’s events. I’m
relieved that the drop was made, but this story is far from over.
“It has
to be somebody familiar with this area,” Frances says. “What if
she was in the store the whole time?”
Goosebumps
appear on my arms, and I shudder. I think back to the store employee
who looked at me with suspicion, and the woman who chased me to
return the scarf I dropped.
“What’s
wrong, Abbie? Callie asks.
I tell
them about the two ladies at the store. The only problem is I don’t
know either one of them. The store employee was older. Sidney hates
anyone over thirty. The younger lady, the one who just happened to be
at the spot where I was supposed to make the exchange, seemed to be
just a customer. But was she?
“That
is odd,” Frances says.
“The
younger lady could have been there to pick up the cash. Which means,
The Avenger was afraid I would recognize her face.”
“Which
brings us back to Sidney,” Frances says.
“Right.”
My cell
phone rings, putting an end to our supposition. I scurry off the sofa
and grab the phone off the bed. It’s better to stand when I answer.
I don’t say a word when I accept the call.
“You’re
competent after all,” she says, her tone scornful. “I knew this
game would be fun.”
“You
got what you wanted. Now it’s your turn to hold up your end of the
deal. You know what I want from you.”
“I’m
not ready to quit this game, not when things are just starting to
heat up.”
“What
are you talking about?”
“Your
next assignment.”
“We had
a deal,” I shriek, anger rising like bile in my throat. “You
promised the photo in exchange for the money. I followed your
instructions. Now, it’s time to step up. Are you going to add
‘filthy liar’ to your list of crimes, too? Extortion is a crime.
You do know that, right?”
“Did
you really think I would make it that easy?” she asks. “This was
only a test. You passed. Congratulations.”
“You
can’t do this.” My voice gets louder as my panic mounts. I pace
the room. The girls follow the conversation from the sofa, disbelief
in their eyes.
“Why should you get away with it? How is that fair?”
I have to
get through to her, somehow. “So you want to even the score? Who
made you the moral police? Without me propping up your extortion
scheme, you have nothing, you hear me. Nothing. You know what, send
the picture to the Easter Bunny or whomever. I don’t care. I’ll
survive the fallout. I’m that desperate to get rid of you.”
I hang up
on her, and then make my way to the bed where I collapse.
Frances
and Callie join me, looking as if they have grave concerns about my
mental state.
“I’m
sorry, Abbie. Are you okay?” Frances asks. “Why did you do that?”
“Do
what?”
“Hang
up on her. Now, you’re in for it. You don’t know what she’s
going to do next.”
