I’m so happy I could cry. This is so much better than having her committed and taking her kids away from her.

Speak of the devil . . . my phone beeps again. I tilt the screen toward me as it rests on the console by my radio.

Jen: I told you to leave your car in the lot.

A split second after reading those words, it’s like there are fireworks going off in my brain, explosions of light and sound, a jumble of thoughts and words and images. Nothing makes any sense. This message has to be from The Beard, but how is he using my sister’s new phone to text me?

Then it hits me.

He’s not using my sister’s new phone to text me.

He’s using his phone.

He’s always been using his phone.

Oh my god. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. It can’t . . . it didn’t . . . it . . . oh my.

Wrong number! Wrong number catastrophe! Ack!

The tires on my car screech to a halt as I pull over in a hurry. Grabbing my phone, I quickly scroll through the texts from start to finish. Understanding dawns clearly for the first time all day.

“Holy crud, Felix.” I look over at my little buddy, who’s staring at me from the passenger seat with his head tilted. He’s as confused as I am, apparently. “I think I’ve been texting a complete stranger this entire time.”

I’m almost relieved. This makes waaaay more sense than my sister taking her kids to a biker bar. It doesn’t, however, make my situation any better.

As it is, I didn’t escape unscathed. Glancing in the mirror confirms it; I have cuts on my face that are going to make me look like I was attacked by a herd of very small cats. I’m going to have to come up with a hell of an excuse for these clients tomorrow. My reflection in the rearview mirror tells me that no amount of foundation is going to erase my brush with death.

Lights fill the interior of my car, interrupting my thoughts. I frown in my mirror, trying to see what’s going on behind me. I’m in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, but maybe I’m blocking someone’s driveway or something.

When the headlights that were lighting up my car’s interior go out, I can see a car parked a half a block behind me. I wait, but no one gets out. I know the car is occupied because there’s the silhouette of a person inside. It looks like a man, based on his size.

“Huh.” I shrug, almost convinced I’m imagining something sinister about the situation. “Oh well. Not my neighborhood. I don’t have to be concerned about weirdos hanging out in parked cars, right?” Talking out loud to Felix makes me feel better, like I have nothing at all to worry about. I’m just a normal girl, driving around in a dark neighborhood with her purse puppy for fun. Nothing to see here, people—move along.

I put the car into first gear and ease back onto the road. I assume all is well until a glance in my rearview mirror has my heart stopping in fear. The car behind me has moved out too, but the driver doesn’t put his headlights back on.

Whoa. It literally hurts, the way my heart muscle is spasming right now. It thumps really hard a few times and then picks up its pace. My ears are burning with the fear that’s taking over. Should I call the police? What will I say? That there’s a person maybe following me in a car? They’ll probably just hang up on me. The New Orleans police department has murders and robberies to deal with on a daily basis, and they’re going to get worried about a woman who’s paranoid as she drives home from a bar she should have never gone to? Yeah, right. I’m not going to waste my time or theirs. I can handle this non-event. I’m just going to drive and stop thinking that everyone is out to get me. Just because one guy took a few shots at someone standing next to me, it doesn’t mean I’m a target, now, right?

I try to calm myself down by talking to Felix. “There’s no way anyone would follow me anywhere, Fee. Don’t be silly.” At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the case. Let’s face it: I’m nobody to ninety-nine point nine percent of the world. Totally not stalker worthy. The most valuable thing about me is my Canon Rebel, which I don’t even have with me tonight.

My calming efforts are having little effect. Paranoia goes into overdrive, and I quickly become convinced that I am, in fact, being stalked. I can tell the car tailing me isn’t that big truck I got a ride in earlier, so it’s not Mister Grizzly Pants here to berate me for not listening to his orders. And who else would it be if not him?

No one.

I blow out a long breath, letting some of my stress go with it. Of course, it’s no one. Ha-ha, this is so crazy! I’m just a photographer with a Chihuahua-mix riding shotgun in a pee-purse. Why would anyone want to follow me, right? I mean, all my ex-boyfriends are happily dating other women, and no stalker-type has made himself known to me before this. The entire idea is absurd. I am completely safe riding around in my cherry-red Chevy Sonic.

I continue on my way, my eyeballs sharing time between the road and my mirror. Instead of going straight to my address, though, I turn left four blocks away. Just in case. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious, right? Even though I have nothing at all to worry about. My life is boring. Car chases only happen in the movies. Assassins go after presidents and drug cartel kingpins, and I’m about as far from being one of those as a girl can be.

The car behind me flicks its lights on and takes the turn as well.

A weird shiver moves up my entire body from my feet to the top of my head, making my hair stand up at the nape of my neck. Then I start sweating all over. I shiver with the sudden change in temperature that I’m pretty sure I’m imagining. I resist the urge to turn on the heater.

“Felix, I’m afraid we’re being followed. Is that paranoid enough for ya?” I try to laugh it off, but Felix is not laughing with me. He jumps into the back seat and up onto the platform over the hatchback’s trunk. Several sharp barks tell me he agrees that something is up with this guy behind us.

“There’s only one way to find out for sure.” Feeling ridiculous, like I’m playacting in a really bad spy movie, I make a hard right onto a street that I know ends in a cul-de-sac.

My palms are sweaty and I’m having a hard time gripping the steering wheel. I wipe one hand off on my pants and then the other. It really doesn’t help much. I can see the end of the street coming, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. This idea seemed great when I took the turn, but now it looks like a trap of my own making. How stupid can I possibly get tonight?

Apparently, quite stupid.

Landscape lights in one of the driveways make it look like the end of a runway, but I’m not coming in for a landing. It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a trap! My brain is racing, berating me for being so air-brained. Why did I turn onto a dead-end street? Am I insane? Do I want to be raped and pillaged? Jesus, I need to get my head examined when this is all over. I just hope it’s still going to be attached to my body tomorrow.

As I reach the first part of the circle, I slow down, giving the car behind me enough time to catch up, hoping to catch a glimpse of him when I go in the opposite direction. This time he leaves his headlights on.

Slowly, slowly, I make my way around the circle, praying he’ll turn into one of the driveways, stop his car, get out, and walk in his front door. I’ll laugh all the way back to my place and go to sleep after a long bath filled with bubbles if that happens. I might even honk my horn as I drive by, thanking him for the tour of his lovely neighborhood.

The other car approaches. It doesn’t pull into any driveways, it just keeps coming.