New York to Dallas

blue rested on its kickstand in the front yard of the house one unit up from target. Boy’s bike, she figured, given the style, and with those training-wheel deals.
    Not a kid McQueen would be interested in, so his partner probably didn’t give him a thought.
    Did she get along with her neighbors? Probably. Didn’t know how long she’d have to stay, wouldn’t want trouble. Kept to herself, the neighbors would say when interviewed after the fact.
    Nice, quiet, pretty woman—women, she thought. She had to be able to come and go as either, didn’t she? They’d be college pals, living together, or sisters or something. Roommates. Never seen together, but who noticed? One worked days, say, the other nights. Different days off.
    Not hard to run a game like that if you stayed smart and careful.
    Top-line security, doors and windows. Well, a couple women, living alone. Who’d question that? Privacy screens drawn.
    Come on, come out. Take a walk, take a drive. Don’t you miss him? You’re obsessed with him. Addicted. You think about him all the time.
    Who are you? How do I know your face—your faces? Did you spend some time in New York before you hooked up with McQueen?
    Maybe she’d busted one of her aliases. But then, she’d have run her. Wouldn’t she have felt some buzz there the way she felt it now?
    Way back, maybe, Eve considered, gnawing on the sensation. Maybe busted her under her real name. Or interviewed her.
    Maybe she’d crossed paths with the woman when she’d been riding the system in foster homes or state institutions and schools. That was more likely, she decided. That would explain the dread. All those years, trapped in the system that, at its base, tried to help. But most of those years had just been another kind of torture.
    She hadn’t lived, hadn’t felt real, until she’d gotten out, gone to New York. The Academy.
    She shifted, sat straighter when the door on the far side of the next unit opened. A kid ran out. Yeah, a boy, she thought. Maybe too young for school. Didn’t matter, no school today anyhow, she remembered. She watched as he zipped to the bike as if it was his one true love, his face shining with joy.
    She eased back again, watching the boy pedal like a demon up and down the sidewalk. She saw him wave and shout, got a look at the guy in the shared yard. Older guy, ball cap, coming around to the front yard with gardening tools. The man set them down, planted his hands on his hips, and grinned at the boy.
    Friendly neighbors. Yeah, just another day in the neighborhood. Kid playing, yard work. And here comes woman walking dog. Some weird little dog, all hair, pulling at the leash, jumping a lot, running in circles and yapping.
    Why did anyone want something that yapped all the damn time?
    Now Yard Work Man and Yapping Dog Lady stop to chat. How’s it going? Hot, isn’t it? Blah blah.
    Thank God she didn’t live in a place where she’d have to make conversation with people about the weather, little hairy dogs, and how the garden grew.
    She’d want to stun every one of the neighbors inside a week.
    Now Yard Work Man has to show Yapping Dog Lady his flowers. Yeah, it’s a flower all right, growing right there on a bush.
    And the dog jumps and sniffs and pulls and chews at the stupid leash while the kid keeps riding as if life itself hangs in the balance.
    No, if she had to live here, she’d stun herself inside a week.
    She came to full alert when the duplex door opened.
    There you are, she thought. There you are. All dressed up for him. Sylvia this fine morning, hair all blond and shiny, pink sundress showing lots of skin, plenty of cleavage. Matching sunshades, high pink and white heels, big-ass pink purse.
    All dolled up for him.
    “We got her,” she said into her com. “Give her room. She’s going for the van.”
    It happened fast. From her screen angle she couldn’t see it all. But she saw enough.
    The dog snapped the leash, and off balance, Yapping Dog Lady landed on her ass. Yard Work Man reached down to her.
    And the dog raced straight for the kid. Even from her post, Eve could hear the wild, high-pitched barking.
    The suspect turned as she opened the driver’s side of the van.
    The boy, startled, let out a yelp and swerved the bike, bumping it off the sidewalk, veering straight out into the street. And into the path of an oncoming car, one moving too fast for a quiet, family neighborhood.
    “Shit, oh shit.”
    As the kid did a header off the bike, one of