The green Mazda continues a short distance, and stops. My stalker is probably calling Brian right now, letting him know that I just visited Maggie. I can’t even warn her. I hide behind the canopy of a cypress. Fifty yards away a sign spells Beverly Hills in golden letters. There’s a hum from the traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard across the park. In the glow from the streetlamp I see the guy emerge: jeans and black hoodie, curly hair sticking out beneath a baseball cap. He heads in my direction, eyes flitting from left to right as though he’s the one being pursued. Someone’s running along the gravel path in the middle of the park. I don’t want to take my eyes off my pursuer, but the rapid footsteps are growing louder. Too late, it occurs to me that they might be Gant’s footsteps. My brother slows up as he approaches the sign. His hood is down, face visible because he wants me to see him.
