“I was behind you, and I should have honked or something when I didn’t see any brake lights as you came up to the intersection. Guess you were distracted. You okay, too, son?”

Robbie kept silent, his eyes locked downward and his hands in his lap. He was not one for making eye contact with men, and Marie-Terese had no interest in forcing him to.

“He’s fine,” she said, resisting the urge to check him for injury again.

There was a long moment and then the man stepped back. “Guess you’ll be on your way home then. Take care.”

“You, too, and thanks again for checking on us.”

“My pleasure. See you soon.”

As she put up her window, a squawking came from the floor at Robbie’s feet. “The phone!” she said. “Oh, no, Trez…Robbie, could you get that?”

Robbie bent down and picked the thing up. Before he gave it to her, he asked grimly, “Would you like me to drive home?”

Marie-Terese nearly laughed, but what stopped her was the seriousness in his face. “I’ll watch out better. Promise.”

“Okay, Mom.”

She patted his knee as she put the phone back to her ear. “Trez?”

“What the fuck was that!”

With a wince, she held the receiver away from her ear. “Ah…it was a red light that I didn’t handle very well.” She checked every mirror on the car and all the windows before putting her blinker on. “But no one’s hurt.”

As the blue Subaru went by, she waved at the driver. Paul…Peter…what was his name?

“Jesus Christ…I nearly had a heart attack,” Trez muttered.

“What were you saying?” As if the near miss in traffic wasn’t enough of a shocker.

“Why don’t you call me back when you get home. I don’t know how many stoplights there are between you and—”

“I’m paying attention now.” She pulled out slowly. “I swear.”

There was some male-oriented grumbling over the connection. Then: “Fine…here’s the deal. The cops showed up here about a half hour ago, looking to talk to staff again, and you in particular. I guess they’d gone to your house and then tried to call you, and when they couldn’t reach you, they headed over here. I don’t know a lot, only that there’s a footprint at both scenes that seems to suggest a link between the two attacks. The tread of a running shoe, I guess? I don’t think I’m supposed to know this, by the way—it was just that two of the cops went outside for a smoke and they were passing some pics back and forth, and gee whiz, I picked up on the convo. Go. Fig.”

Marie-Terese’s first thought was that Vin didn’t wear sneakers—or at least he’d had on flat-soled loafers both nights.