I’m the person to trust with the information. I’ve taken a huge risk in sharing so many secrets, in the hope of eliciting a reply from you. So, please, contact me. I’m waiting, and I promise I won’t judge you. Whatever you’ve done, you had your reasons. I am ready to listen and understand.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

C (for Confidant) x

•  Location: Wherever You Are

•  It’s NOT OK to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Posted: 2013-07-04, 16:17PM GMT

CHAPTER 1

Monday, July 1, 2013

IT CAN’T BE HIM. All policemen wear high-visibility jackets these days. Lots must have sand-colored hair that’s a little bit wavy. In a minute he’ll turn around and I’ll see his face and laugh at myself for panicking.

Don’t turn around, unless you’re someone else. Be someone else. Please.

I sit perfectly still, try not to notice the far-reaching reverberations of every heartbeat. There is too much distance trapped in me. Miles. I can’t reach myself. A weird illusion grips me: that I am my heart and my car is my chest, and I’m shaking inside it.

Seconds must be passing. Not quickly enough. Time is stuck. I stare at the clock on my dashboard and wait for the minute to change. At last, 10:52 becomes 10:53 and I’m relieved, as if it could have gone either way.

Crazy.

He’s still standing with his back to me. So many details are the same: his hair, his height, his build, the yellow jacket with “POLICE” printed on it . . .

If it’s him, that means I must be doing something wrong, and I’m not. I’m definitely not. There’s no reason for him to reappear in my life; it wouldn’t be fair, when I’m trying so hard. Out of everyone sitting in their cars in this line of traffic, I must be among the most blameless, if I’m being judged on today’s behavior alone: a mother driving to school to deliver her son’s forgotten gym bag. I could have said, “Oh well, he’ll just have to miss gym, or wear his school uniform,” but I didn’t. I knew Ethan would hate those two options equally, so I canceled my hair appointment and set off back to school, less than an hour after I’d gotten home from dropping the children off there. Willingly, because I care about my son’s happiness.

Which means this has to be a different policeman up ahead. It can’t be him. It was my guilt that drew him to me last time. Today, I’m innocent. I’ve been innocent for more than three weeks.

Drew him to you?