Dying Embers
“said Ben. We lined up at the stop sign with Detective Van Huis’s fake-woody minivan. He went left and Ben turned right onto Forty-fourth Street.
“It’s a school night,” I said.
“Danny would’ve been in college if he hadn’t broke his leg and been in traction for six weeks.”
“Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” I said. “Take the next …”
I flopped down the visor and focused the vanity mirror out the rear window. We had three sets of headlights behind us.
Ben flipped up the turn signal. “It’s a school play,” he said. He took his foot off the gas and pushed in the clutch.
“Oh yeah? What are they doing?”
“Oklahoma,” he said, and eased into the turn—onto a residential street.
“Sorry I missed it.”
“It’s on again tomorrow and Friday,” said Ben. “What are we doing? Do we know somebody down here?”
“Nope. Checking for a tail.”
“Cool.”
The car directly behind us passed the intersection, but the second one turned in after us. I watched for it to flash under the street light—a small white car with a dark top.
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