Free video rentals were poor compensation for the time she had to spend away from her little boy.
Hannah had to remind herself that, despite everything, she and her son were far better off than they’d been two years ago. They were safe now. No one knew where they were. All things considered, she was lucky to have this go-nowhere job and her little two-bedroom apartment. Maybe she didn’t get to spend much time with her son, but at least they were together. These were precious days. She was indeed lucky.
The past hadn’t caught up with her yet.
Her name was Cindy Finkelston. Anyone who had been in Emerald City Video forty-five minutes before certainly knew that. She’d even spelled out the name for all to hear, loudly enunciating each letter. Her grand exit had been quite an attention-getter as well.
She probably had no idea that someone was videotaping her.
It was no stroke of fate that he’d had his camera with him. He always carried it around. Today his video camera was concealed in a shoulder-strap carryall that looked like a laptop computer bag. He often filmed people on the sly that way. It just so happened he’d been keeping surveillance of the video store when Hannah Doyle had her run-in with Ms. Finkelston. He hadn’t expected to find someone like Cindy today. It was almost as if Cindy had chosen him rather than the other way around.
Now he was following her, videotaping her every move. After leaving Emerald City Video, Cindy walked two blocks to the Thriftway. On tape, he caught her slipping an expensive bottle of shampoo into her coat pocket.
Her BMW was parked in a three-minute loading and unloading zone in front of an apartment building. She’d been in that space for at least an hour now. It had grown dark, and the streetlights were on.
Obviously, Cindy Finkelston lived her life getting away with as much as she could, not caring about anyone else. If she ever became the victim of some freak accident, no one would really miss her.
He was on foot, and thought he’d lose her once she drove off. But three stop signs—and one particularly irate pedestrian whom Cindy almost mowed down at a crosswalk—helped him keep a tail on her for six blocks. Still, he was winded by the time he filmed her pulling into a gated lot beside the sterile, slate-colored, five-story apartment building. He wondered about the picture quality for this impromptu night shoot, but decided to take his chances and keep filming.
Cindy climbed out of her BMW, took the stolen shampoo from her pocket, and transferred it to the bag of groceries. Once she stepped inside the lobby, he zoomed in with the camera, catching her in close-up through the glass doors as she rang for the elevator.
The camera panned and scanned across the ugly building for a couple of minutes. Then a light went on in one of the fifth-floor windows. He zoomed in again, and taped Cindy as she came to the window and opened it a crack. She stepped away, out of camera range.
He turned off the video camera. He’d taped enough of Cindy Finkelston—for now. She wasn’t really that important. He didn’t want to waste any more time with a supporting player.
His new leading lady required some looking after.
Two
Hannah had walked this way home from work hundreds of nights. It was only six blocks from the store to the front door of her building. The route she took was well traveled and well lit. Not a bad night for a walk, either. Trees swayed and leaves rustled in the chilly October breeze. The stars were out, too.
Approaching a narrow alleyway between two apartment buildings, Hannah suddenly stopped in her tracks. A passing car’s headlights swept across the dark alcove, briefly illuminating a man who stood by the dumpsters. He wore a bulky jacket and a hunter’s hat.
A chill ran through Hannah. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. Picking up her pace, she hurried past the alley and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
He stood in the shadows. Hannah thought he was drinking something from a bottle. But then she realized that he was holding a video camera.
Just a minute ago, she’d been thinking about her tired feet, and getting home in time to tuck in her son before he fell asleep. She’d been thinking about a shower and the leftover pasta for dinner. But now, none of that mattered. She just needed to get away from this strange man in the hunting cap who was videotaping her.
Hannah started to run. Her apartment building was another three blocks away. She glanced over her shoulder.
He hadn’t emerged from the alley yet. Was he really recording her? Maybe he’d just found a broken video camera in the dumpster. Maybe it wasn’t even a video camera. Her eyes were tired; she could have been mistaken. After staring at the register’s computer screen all day at work, it was a wonder she could focus on anything.
Hannah slowed down for the last block. She kept peeking over her shoulder. No one was following her. She felt silly, frightened by a harmless dumpster-diver lurking in an alley. What did she expect, living in the city?
Hannah was still chiding herself and catching her breath as she stepped into the lobby. Her apartment building was called the Del Vista, one of many former hotels built for the Seattle World’s Fair in 1962. A three-story, tan-brick structure, it offered Space Needle views in many of the units, including Hannah’s two-bedroom apartment. Hannah had gotten it cheap because the previous tenant had committed suicide in the living room. Seattle housing regulations required that landlords pass along such information to potential renters. Hannah didn’t know how the poor guy did himself in. Revealing those details wasn’t part of the housing rule’s requirements. All she knew was that word of the suicide drove away prospective tenants and drove down the unit’s rental price. She never could have afforded the place otherwise.
She had nothing but junk mail.
She climbed three flights in the cinderblock stairwell that lead to an outside balcony. Approaching her door, Hannah noticed the flickering light from the TV set in the living-room window. She passed the window and waved at her baby-sitter, Joyce. A husky woman in her early sixties, Joyce sat on the sofa with a bag of Chips Ahoy at her side. She had dyed-red hair and cat-eye glasses. Joyce waved back to Hannah and started to pull herself off the couch.
Hannah beat her to the door. Joyce waddled around the coffee table. “You’re going to hate me,” she announced. “I polished off the chocolate-chip cookies. If you want dessert tonight, all I left you was Melba toast.”
“No sweat,” Hannah said. She set her purse and coat on a straight-back chair by the front door. “How’s Guy?” she asked. “Is he asleep?”
Joyce switched off the TV. “He’s waiting up for you. At least, when I checked on him a couple of minutes ago he was still hanging in there.”
Joyce retreated to the kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter. Three tall barstools were lined up by that counter, the closest thing Hannah had to a dining-room table. Her apartment had been furnished entirely with finds from Ikea and secondhand stores. It all blended together nicely. An Edward Hopper print hung on the wall—along with framed movie posters of
Family photos were also on display: her deceased parents; her favorite aunt, with whom she’d lost touch
