Deep Trauma

Indio was at Riley’s side the second he heard her lift his leash off the counter near the back door. It was well into the evening, and she grabbed her weighty new flashlight—the fancy one she’d bought from the Home Shopping Network—from the hallway closet. She zipped up her hooded sweatshirt and headed out for an evening walk.

For some reason, she had decided to leave home via the back entry across a small stretch of mowed lawn and out through the tall wooden gate into the alleyway. Perhaps she’d chosen the route out of an abundance of caution. It made sense, after all. If she needed to be vigilant on her commute because someone with nefarious intent might be looking for her on the freeway, then surely it made sense that someone might already have found her. It wouldn’t have been hard to locate an address linked to her bike’s license plate number.

The sweet perfume of the jasmine growing along the wooden fence in the alleyway hung heavily in the cool night air. The far-off hum of traffic on the freeway was somehow reassuring in its testimony to life as usual.

They walked side by side through the dimly lit alley. Riley’s flashlight, on the lowest setting, swept over the gravel ahead in a soft glow. The patter of Indio’s paws halted every now and again while he sniffed out some novelty or paused to listen to the distant barking of neighborhood dogs.

Several blocks later, Riley, feeling somewhat more relaxed, turned out of the alleyway and headed back home via the frontage road. She flipped the flashlight off—it was less necessary now with the occasional streetlamp—but that didn’t mean she’d let her guard down. She scanned the vehicles parked along the curb in both directions on her street, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Traffic in the neighborhood was predictably light, given the hour. Most commuters would be home by now, perhaps finishing dinner or getting their children ready for bed.

Half a block from home, Indio suddenly froze, emitting a low, soft growl. Riley followed the dog’s gaze to a vehicle cruising slowly down the road toward them, coming to a brief halt directly in front of her bungalow. She quickly stepped into the shadow of one of the many large pepper trees lining the street.

Crouching in the darkness next to Indio, Riley watched the car advance in her direction and then continue by, seemingly oblivious to her presence, despite the fact that whoever was driving was obviously in search of something or someone.

As she watched the vehicle depart, confusion began to replace her fear. There were no telltale emblems of hate plastered on the rear window. On the contrary, what sort of violent extremist would drive a Honda wagon with a rainbow bumper sticker?

A minute later, the street was quiet again, but Indio refused to budge from his position in the shadows. Just as Riley was about to insist they continue—they were almost home—she saw the giant.

He was sitting in his big black truck parked across the street from her bungalow, with a pair of field glasses pressed to his face.

And he was looking right at her.