High-Heeled Alibi. Sydney Ryan

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      The man was looking out the window. “Nah, I crawled into a casket. Took a little nap.”

      She glanced up and saw the man’s easy grin. Not exactly her idea of a cold-blooded criminal. Then again, her character antennae had been whacked out since her first adolescent hormonal rush.

      She took another left. “So, if you’re the good guy, Mr. James, why are you being chased by the SFPD?”

      “Call me Mick.”

      “Okay, what’d you do to upset San Francisco’s finest, not to mention our local boys in blue, Mick?” She bit down on the hard K. “Nothing?”

      His eyes, as unclouded as a child’s, met hers in the mirror. “I’m in danger.”

      Bitsy steered right, looking away from those eyes. Eyes lied as easily as lips.

      “And so are you.”

      Bitsy looked in the mirror before making another turn. “That’s pretty obvious to me, Mick.” Again, the cutting K.

      His eyes were steady and dark blue in the reflection. “I was set up. Soon I’ll be charged with a crime I didn’t commit. Except I’ve got an alibi—you. So now, when they learn I’m not dead, they don’t only have to find me and kill me. They have to kill you, too. And this time the deaths will be real.”

      “For an innocent man, you certainly seem to attract your share of enemies, Mick. First, the police. Now, murderers.”

      “One man is dead already. Another was almost killed last night.”

      “And you’re innocent.”

      “I don’t know any man who’s innocent,” her captor said. “But I didn’t do the crimes they’ll say I did.”

      Bitsy knew those blue eyes were looking at her in the mirror, asking her to believe him. She kept her gaze on the road.

      Behind her, Mick swore. He’d seen the parked black-and-white sedan with the row of red lights across the roof the same time she had.

      She checked the mirror. She didn’t see Mick. Instead she heard, “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll use this if I have to.”

      A hard point jabbed her through the back of her seat. He had a gun. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breathe. All her control dissolved. Her life was reduced to a half-inch circle at the base of her spine.

      He jabbed her again, low at her back, and she felt fear flow from that point right up her backbone. Adrenaline overwhelmed her brain, her body. Everything seemed to speed up, yet slow down at the same time.

      “You better pray they didn’t see me,” she heard him threaten.

      She’d dealt with death every day, foolishly thinking she’d forged a pact with its unreasonableness. But here it was, the ultimate master of ceremonies. Let me live, she prayed.

      She glanced in the mirror, not expecting to see the man. But could he see her if she tried to signal the police? Taking a chance right now could be deadly. So was not taking one.

      “Keep your gaze straight ahead,” Mick ordered. “Don’t even think of looking to the right.”

      The gun bore into her back. She pulled even with the police cruiser, then past it. The chance was gone.

      “Are we close to your house?” he asked.

      “Yes.” The word came out anguished.

      “For your sake, I hope so.”

      She arched her lower back, moving her slim vertebrae away from the focused pressure on her back. In her mind, she could see the hole formed by a bullet, a perfect polka dot piercing her skin, her spine, her organs. Her terror fed on itself now, widening, overtaking her.

      She forced herself to concentrate.

      She couldn’t risk going to the police station. Maybe if she got him inside her house, she could find a weapon or call the police. “Won’t be but a minute,” she assured the man, her voice June Cleaver surreal.

      The man said nothing.

      Did he have a full clip in his gun, she wondered. She slowed down and took a right, then another and another until the car was turned around again, heading back to her house. In mute panic, she watched the police car grow smaller until it disappeared from the mirror.

      “Are we almost there?” the man asked after a few silent minutes.

      “Yes,” Bitsy replied. There was a warm, metallic sensation in her mouth. She’d bitten into her own lip and drawn blood.

      The man stayed down, said nothing. She heard his even breathing, his steady, too quiet threat. She smelled the lingering chemical odor from the embalming room. The fluid of death. Her stomach roiled. She feared she’d get sick. She felt the touch of death at her backbone and prayed desperately for another day.

      They pulled into the driveway of the stucco bungalow she rented in a quiet neighborhood of similar stucco and clapboard bungalows. She saw the delicate scalloped line of the eaves. She saw the tangle of rosebushes along the trellised front porch. They’d been pruned, in preparation for winter. Still, several thorny trailers continued to grow. She stared at those stubborn tentacles of new green. Tears filled her eyes. Control. The word came like a mantra. Control, Bitsy.

      She pushed the garage-door opener on the visor, waited while the door rose, steered inside. She turned off the car’s engine, but clung to the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking. Still the tremors seized her, and her body trembled.

      “We’re here,” she said, sounding like the gracious hostage.

      “Shut the garage door.”

      She did as he said. The door dropped, sealing her farther off from salvation. After its final rattle, she saw the shock of blond hair first, rising cautiously. His eyes, alert, canvassed the inside of the garage, the side door. The pressure against her back stayed. “This is where you live?”

      Bitsy nodded.

      “Alone?”

      She nodded again.

      “Any animals? A dog? A cat?”

      She shook her head.

      “If we step inside and I find out otherwise, I’ll kill them.”

      “There’s only me.”

      “All right. Let’s go.”

      She got out of the car and he was immediately right behind her, gripping her upper arm. She tried to step and her knees buckled. He caught her. The dull point of the gun, covered by the sheet folded across his arm, pressed into her ribs. The heat of his body mixed with the heat of her fear.

      “You should get a pet,” he suggested as they headed with awkward steps to the side door. “A little dog or a cat, maybe.”

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