Polly’s head was swinging back and forth as she scanned the shadowy edges of the parking lot.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I already checked. He’s not out here.”

Ethan put his arm around Polly’s shoulders. “I think you should leave your car here and ride with one of us. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Polly said. “I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then how about you go first, and I’ll follow right behind you.”

Polly nodded. I realized we’d all been whispering.

Ethan took his arm back, shrugged. “I’ll pick you up about ten minutes before seven.”

Polly wound slowly through the backroads of Marshbury. I stayed tight on her tail, as if her ex might come out of nowhere and try to wedge his car between ours. Flecks of snow dotted the windshield, then disappeared as if they’d never been there. Just a hint of winter weather to come, not even enough to bother flicking on the windshield wipers.

When I turned on the radio, David Lee Roth’s version of “Just a Gigolo” blasted out, the perfect tribute to Polly’s wasband. I hoped the song was playing in Polly’s car, too, and she was laughing and singing along with me, a duet stretched between two cars. I flashed on being a kid and playing telephone between two paper cups attached to each other with a string pulled tight, decided to try it out with the kids at school one of these days.

An animal darted into the space between Polly and me. I hit my brakes. Before I got a good look, whatever it was turned around and took off into the woods. Maybe a coyote or a possum or a half-grown fawn. I hoped it wasn’t the scruffy little dog, on its way to the beach to scavenge for dinner at the Christmas tree.

There was a full house in the driveway when Polly and I crunched our cars over the crushed mussel shells. John’s car. Johnny’s car. Joe’s truck. A white work van. The pink ice cream truck.

A generic white sedan.

My breath caught in my throat as I pulled in behind the white car. Under the glare of my headlights, I could see a bar code sticker on the rear window—easy scanning for a quick pickup or return. No dealer frame with a catchy saying around the license plate. Definitely a rental car. Empty.

“Polly,” I whisper-yelled as I jumped out of my car.

Polly stopped, turned to face me.

“That’s his rental car,” I said. “Galen’s,” I added as if she might have any doubt who I was talking about.

“How did he find out where I live?” she said.