Miami, Tuesday morning, February 7th Gloria drove her rented red Toyota Camry down Brickell Avenue in Miami. Another couple of blocks and she’d arrive at the agency. Gripping the steering wheel tight, she thought of what a full morning it had been. The day had started out well enough. She had walked out into the bright Miami sun and smiled as a busy lizard skittered by underfoot. She had looked up at the enormous palm trees. For just a few seconds she had enjoyed her environment and contrasted it to the bitter Boston snowstorm she’d fled. But as she had reached for her car door she saw him in the reflection of the car window. He wasn’t wearing the trench coat this time, but she’d know that face anywhere: the man from the airport who had tried to kill her last night. His image in her window grew larger as he approached, and she couldn’t get her key to fit in the lock. Her fingers wouldn’t cooperate because she couldn’t focus on opening the door.
