“It’s about time, girl!” Paris coos into the phone. “I was getting performance anxiety waiting for you to call.”
“Don’t flip out on me,” I caution him as I walk to the well-lit corner of the street.
“What? Oh my god, you’re hurt!” Paris screeches theatrically. He only turns on the camp when it’s the two of us as it is now. “Miss Thing is probably walking as we speak, ignoring what Sister Paris done told her.”
“Paris, I need you to pick me up.” I read him my street coordinates, not in any mood to joke. “Please hurry.”
“I’ll be right there.” Paris drops the act and clicks off the phone. As I wait for him, I keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. I’m afraid the car will come back to try to finish the job, but nothing happens. I’m able to relax by the time Paris comes barreling down the street towards me in his black Honda Accord.
“Hey,” I say as I drag myself into the car. I feel as if it ought to be three in the morning rather than nine-fifteen at night.
Of course, Paris wants to know what happened. I ask where Lyle is and am informed that he’s waiting at the apartment because Paris wanted alone time with me. He still hasn’t started the car, and I know he won’t move until I give him an explanation. I take several breaths before blurting out that someone tried to run me over. I quickly amend the statement, saying that perhaps the person was merely trying to scare me. Paris, who had started to pull away from the curb as soon as he saw I was going to speak, nearly runs into a lamppost. I implore him to keep his eyes on the road while I tell him my pitiful saga. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Why is someone trying to run me over? It’s not like the last time when I actively took a part in the investigation. I’m trying to keep out of this investigation, but am being targeted just the same—first by the cops, then by the murderer, if that is who tried to run me over.