42

By the time William rounded the corner around which Orelia had disappeared, she was a good twenty yards ahead. He dodged and weaved past pedestrians as he tried to catch up to her. A writer’s life is sedentary, so he was not fit, and he soon found himself panting with the exertion. Rivulets of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and he wished he’d worn a short sleeve shirt. A foot race was the last thing he’d expected. Then again, nothing was as he expected when it came to Orelia.

The lack of hesitation in her stride suggested she seemed to know her destination. The same crowd of zombie walkers who blocked William’s maneuvers weren’t as much a hindrance to her. Orelia was nimble on her feet, as she appeared to be returning via the exact route she had come. When she reached the bus stop, the same one at which she’d alighted, she stopped and waited with a small group of commuters. Her demeanor was one of calm as if returning from nothing more than a job or an outing.

William dashed to his car, which, thank God, hadn’t been towed. He’d expected to find it gone, but that was at least a piece of luck in his favor, a sign to him he could be doing the right thing. Fortune’s kindness though, didn’t extend to protecting him from a parking fine. He tore the offending slip from beneath his wiper and threw it on to the passenger seat.

Who was he kidding? What the hell was he doing? Following a woman for no good reason except that he believed she’d taken his luck and, in doing so, his career. His embarrassing obsession was why he was on his own in this wild goose chase. Yet, so was she. Orelia didn’t appear to have any allies or partners.

As he turned the key and heard the engine chug alive, he envisioned the image of the beggar, and Orelia placing the money in his container. So she comes all this way to donate to a stranger? Why does she spend her days inside her protected mansion, only coming out for a meaningless charitable act? Yeah, that made so little sense, his brain felt fried even thinking about it.

He steered the car around the corner in time to see her boarding the bus. His best move was to follow and discover what other sidewalk friends she might visit. He’d return later and check on the recipient of her good nature; maybe the man held a clue.

Wrong decision as he discovered. For she didn’t go anywhere except home. Midday turned into late afternoon, and the hours outside The Fortress, as he’d named the place, passed with him anticipating something eventful. But she never ventured out again that day.

By eight he was hungry, tired and frustrated, and he imagined the vagrant had quit his begging spot or been moved on to another destination. The idea of returning to North Park in the evening didn’t appeal either. It was time to call this quits and re-evaluate his whole strategy. A day which began with promise of discovering something to solve the puzzle of Orelia Mason had become a pointless waste of precious hours. He could have been writing today and all these past days.