Run To You

give you my phone number?”
    “I have your number.” He set his fork on the empty plate and drained his coffee. “I know your work schedule, driver’s license and car tag numbers. How many parking, speeding, and various moving violation tickets you’ve had in the past ten years. I know how many times you’ve appeared in court, and your last four known addresses.” He set the mug on the table and reached for his hat. “I know all that without really digging too deep . . .”
    “How?”
    He adjusted the hat on his head a few times. “Stealthy ninja secrets I learned in security school.” He stood and pulled out his wallet. “Call the middle number when you make up your mind. Leave a message and I’ll let Sadie know your decision.” He slid a business card toward her, then threw money on the table.
    She didn’t know what to do. “What if . . .” She shook her head. She would not voice her deepest fear. Not even to herself. Especially not to this hard-eyed stranger.
    “Talk to your sister. Don’t talk to her. I don’t care one way or the other. I told Vince I’d find you and I did. Once I hear from you, I’m out of it.” Then he walked away, and she raised her gaze to his broad shoulders. Within a few long strides, he moved out the front doors and disappeared into the darkness.
    Stella lifted a hand from her lap and picked up the card. Black, of course, with bold silver print. “Junger Security and Logistics Inc.” appeared in the middle of the card with three numbers below: office, cell, and fax. She pressed the pad of her thumb into the card’s sharp corner. She concentrated on the pressure and pinpoint sting. It was too much. Tonight had been too much. Ricky’s slimy antics and Joe punching Ricky in the head. She didn’t have a job now, and she didn’t know when she would get another. Oh, she could probably sling drinks in a dive bar, but the tips weren’t as good as in South Beach. If she didn’t hurry and get a job, she’d lose her tiny apartment. True, it wasn’t much, but it was currently home. There was money in her trust fund account from Clive Hollowell, but that money had never been hers and had always caused more problems than it had solved.
    She took a deep breath and placed a hand on her bare throat. Too much. Tonight was way too much to handle. Ricky. Her job.
    Sadie. Did she dare open that door?
    “Can I get you anything else,” the waitress asked as she took the empty plate and mug from across the table.
    “No. Thank you.” Stella grabbed her Amy bouffant and stuffed it in her backpack. She rose and looked at the card in her hand. If she left it on the table, the choice would end right now. She wouldn’t have to think about it. She wished she could talk to her mother. Not that Marisol gave good advice, but sometimes it helped Stella to talk about things out loud. Sometimes she needed to vocalize her options and possible outcomes to get it all straight in her own head.
    The strap of her backpack slid across her shoulder and she shoved the card into an outside pocket. It was twelve-thirty in New Mexico, and talking to her mother was not one of her options.
    She left the café and headed back toward Ricky’s. The wind had kicked up, and she ducked her head against the damp air. The first splashes of rain hit her bare shoulders and forehead and picked up as she turned the corner. From across the street, she paused to peer into the parking lot. Except for employee vehicles, it was empty. No prone body by the back door. No ambulance. No one lurking in the dark. Droplets pelted her face as she ran to her PT Cruiser and dived inside. With her heart pounding in her head for the second time that night, she started the car and sped out of the parking lot. Half a block from the bar, she flipped on the lights and wipers and headed toward her apartment near Fifty-eighth and Sixth. She glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting someone to follow her. Something to happen. She wasn’t exactly sure what, but it wasn’t until she’d exited the Julia Tuttle Causeway that she started to breathe a little easier. She continued through the glittering lights of the high-rise buildings of midtown and under swaying traffic signals. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the assigned parking spot of her terra-cotta and red stucco apartment complex. She bolted from the car to the front of the building and up the stairs to the third floor. Once inside, she locked, dead bolted, and