Blind Spot

By the time I wrapped up work at nine that night, the rain had stopped, though a slight mist still hung in the spring air. When I went to change into my sneakers, they were still damp, so I stayed in my heels. Cinching my raincoat around my waist, I scurried to the parking garage, scanning my surroundings in case anyone was following me. I hated being so paranoid but ignoring the threats seemed naïve.

I chose to use the stairs instead of the elevator. Less chance of being trapped. I tromped down three floors to discover the light above the exit door was out, casting the area into shadow. A shiver of unease gripped me but then I gave myself a reality check. Bulbs wear out. It happens. There was no need to imagine a bogeyman behind every door. But at the same time, I wasn’t about to stumble blindly into a deserted garage bathed in darkness. I turned on my phone’s flashlight to light the way. Thank goodness I had my umbrella along. In a pinch, I could use it as a weapon, buy myself enough time to call for help.

My car stood silhouetted against the back wall. No one was around. The space was spookily silent, the only sound my own stilettos as they clicked on the concrete pavement. Half-way there, I hit the car’s key fob to open the driver’s side door and the taillights flashed. As an added precaution, I kept my index finger poised above the alarm button.

What was that? A piece of paper was wedged under the wipers. Please let it be a takeout menu. Or a political flyer. I surveyed the area. No sound. No movement. Only dark corners and the noise of brakes grinding from the level above.

I grabbed the note. It was on white card stock, the message written in block letters in blood-red ink.

It’s no use running. I’ll catch you.

A hard stone wedged in my throat, making it hard to breathe. Was he watching me right now? Had he been waiting patiently in the shadows all night until I left work? What do you want, you son of a bitch? I whispered to myself.

I needed to get out of here. The nearest exit was in the opposite direction, back the way I’d come. A long walk across a deserted garage, with plenty of chances for someone hiding behind a car to rush out and attack me. I was safer here. I glanced in the back seat to make sure no one was hiding there, ready to pounce as soon as I got inside.

A motor roared behind me and a dark sedan came into view from the floor below. The car was at the far end of the garage, headed my way. Lungs on fire, I yanked open the car door and, in my hurry, dropped the note on the pavement where it skidded away. Damn. I bent down, ready to chase after it.

Stop. Think.

If my harasser was in the approaching car or lurking somewhere nearby, what better opportunity to assault me than when I was crawling on all fours trying to retrieve a lousy piece of paper.

Instead, I flung myself into the driver’s seat, hit the button to lock the doors, and watched in the rearview mirror as the oncoming car inched closer.

Closer.

The blazing headlights blinded me. I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel. The driver passed my car and parked in an empty spot around the corner, only a few yards away. He turned off the engine, then the lights.

I waited, frozen in place, pulse pounding in my ears. Why hadn’t I taken this more seriously? Why hadn’t I reached out for help? Why was I so stubborn sometimes, insisting on doing everything myself?

Seconds elapsed. No one got out. It was like some old-time Western. High Noon in downtown Milwaukee. I pulled my cell from the pocket of my raincoat, fingers dialing before I had a chance to think.

“9-1-1. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

My throat seized. I received a bouquet of flowers. I got a voice mail. There’s a note on my windshield. It all sounded so nebulous.

“I’m in McArthur Square garage,” I began, then swiveled to look at the parked sedan.

An elderly woman with steel-gray hair opened the passenger door, swung one leg out, and hoisted herself out of the car, using her arms as support. The driver of the vehicle, a short, skinny man about the same age, came around and took the woman’s elbow and they hobbled together toward the elevator bank, chatting and laughing into the night air.

“Ma’am, are you still there? Are you okay?” said a voice on the phone.

“Yes. Sorry. Wrong number.” I disconnected the call as my pulse dropped back to normal. I was safe. For now. Whoever had left the note had come and gone. But I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Those flowers weren’t misdelivered. The note on my windshield wasn’t a mistake. Whoever was behind this knew where I worked. What car I drove. Maybe even where I lived.

It was about time I stopped being so goddamn blasé and faced facts. I had a stalker and it was about time I did something about it.

Excerpt from Blindspot by Maggie Smith. Copyright 2024 by Maggie F Smith. Reproduced with permission from Maggie Smith. All rights reserved.