Edge of Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page B

into the garage and stood there, unable to take a step.
    After four deep breaths, she got in the Honda. With a shaky hand she stuck the key in the ignition. She was always afraid he’d do something so it wouldn’t run, but it started right up. He’d been wanting to get rid of it, talking about how much a second car cost and they didn’t really need it. She wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore. Soon her dwindling vision wouldn’t let her drive anyway.
    At Albertson’s in the El Cerrito Plaza, she pushed a cart up and down the aisles, thinking this was the last time she’d be in this store. Box of oatmeal, loaf of bread—white bread, the only kind Mitch liked—tomatoes, cucumber. She spent a few seconds selecting the best apples, toilet tissue, package of sliced cheese, pork chops, carton of milk, carton of ice cream. She wrote out a check. Number 4512, the last one she would write. As she was wheeling the cart to her car, a cop car drove into the lot.
    Mitch! He’ll kill me!
    The black-and-white made a loop—the driver looked nothing like Mitch—and drove away. The panicky white fizz drained away, leaving her feeling weak. With pep talks to herself, she put the bags of groceries, one by one, on the back seat of the car, tossed her purse on the floor. She closed the door with a soft thunk and started to walk away without a backward glance, but when she got to the street, she turned and looked. There were so many black cars and so many of them were Hondas, she couldn’t tell which was hers.

 
    4
    How long before the car was found, Cary wondered, as she crossed the street on the last Monday she’d ever be in El Cerrito, California. She hoped the milk would be sour and the ice cream melted all over the seat covers. Avoiding the tendency to slink and look over her shoulder, she raised her chin, strode into the BART station, and slid dollar bills in the machine. When her ticket popped out she snatched it, dropped her cell phone in the trash can, and trotted up the stairs.
    Four people waited on the platform. She eyed each to make sure no one knew her. A man reading the Chronicle , a girl studying the colored map of destinations on the wall, two women standing near the edge chatting with each other. They all ignored the skinny woman with brown curly hair who got on the first train that came in and got off in Berkeley. Heart beating uncomfortably fast, she waited through minutes that dragged by before a San Francisco train came. She got on and stared out the window, not really seeing anything, not feeling nervous when the car went down into the tube under the bay, only feeling terrified when she got off at the Embarcadero station.
    Mentally reviewing the street map she’d studied, telling herself she couldn’t get lost in three blocks, she walked to Fremont Street, went inside the Greyhound bus depot. Using a big chunk of her money, she bought a ticket for far, far away. She waited, jittery, afraid anybody looking at her would know she was holding herself together by a few unraveling threads. When her bus lumbered in, she climbed aboard, sat in a window seat, and stared through the glass. A stout woman in her sixties sat down beside her, wiggled around to get comfortable and plopped a bulging tote bag at her feet.
    â€œHoo, it takes more and more energy to climb those steps.” She smiled at Cary. “I’ve been visiting my new grandson.”
    She poked through the bag for a skein of yarn—fuzzy red, yellow, and orange colors that glowed like fire—then took out a pair of lethal-looking knitting needles. “Something to pass the time,” she said. “I always have to be busy with something. You know what they say about idle hands.” She rummaged in the bag again, produced a pair of glasses, and carefully hooked the ear pieces around her ears.
    Cary watched the woman’s hands flash like pale birds, as rows of bright red and