I was looking for a nondescript light gray sedan. It had been following me all the way across from Cypress Point Park, where I’d gone for my morning run. It was only a couple of months since Kate Piers died and I still missed her like crazy. I’d intended clearing my head with a burst of physical effort, the only thing that could shift the troubling thought that Kate died because I’d failed to keep her safe, but that wasn’t to be. When I’d arrived at the park the sedan was waiting for me, and had tucked itself in behind me all the way here. Only my unscheduled stop had forced it to continue on by.

Down on the Hillsborough River, birds dove at shoals of fish and I could hear their raucous calls even over the swish of passing traffic. There was a tang of citrus and exhaust fumes on the air, and the sun was hot and still. Sunbeams bounced off the windows of the beer can, sending razors of light back at me. All these things were distractions and, like the memories of Kate Piers, I blocked them out.

The sedan returned within a minute. I leaned against my Audi, and had a full-on argument with my unheeding phone. As the car swept past I allowed my gaze to skim over it. I had all of a second to identify those within the car, but I’d trained myself to snap-shoot a scene and replay it through my mind at my leisure. The car continued on by and already its driver was looking for somewhere to stop.

I got back in my car and set off over the bridge, heading into downtown Tampa. Behind me, those in the sedan would be frantically searching for somewhere to turn. I could have given them the slip at that point, but I wanted to know who these people were. More than that, I wanted to know what they wanted. I drove slowly, giving them an opportunity to catch up.

Four blocks on and I saw the gray sedan in my mirror. I turned right on to Florida Avenue, then continued straight ahead until I was stopped by a red light at Whiting Street. The sedan was three cars back, behind a Jeep and a Ford, and I saw the passenger lean out of the window to get a better look at me. This action was amateurish or it was contrived.

While I waited for the light to change, I ran the snapshot image I’d shelved through my mind. The driver was a man in his late thirties, muscular build, short dark hair, broken nose. His front-seat passenger was a shade older, stocky build, but his hair was a tad longer and flecked with gray. Despite the heat, they wore sports jackets over formal shirts, ties knotted at their throats.