A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

me. But now I’m grateful for the pepper spray. I’ve had the same
canister for years. It’s probably expired, the ingredients degraded so
that they wouldn’t be much help if I needed them. But the weight of it
in my hand is a relief. It’s better than nothing.
I keep my head up as I walk. I stay alert, scanning the parking
garage with every step. There’s no one here. The parking garage is
empty. Still, there are darkened voids where I can’t see, like in the
corners of the garage where the lights don’t reach. There are
stairwells at each corner; the doors are open, only a blackened
hollow remains. If someone was there, standing in that blackened
hollow, three feet back from the open door, I wouldn’t know. I also
wouldn’t know if someone was behind me. I try to listen for footsteps.
But there is some sort of supply or exhaust fan whirring in the
garage. It dampens all other sounds. All I can hear is that fan. Twice
I glance back to see if someone’s there, and no one is. Still, it
doesn’t fully suppress the fear. As soon as I turn back, the fear of
being followed returns.
I dig again into my bag. I find my cell phone, grip it in my hand. I
don’t want to call and wake Josh; I’d never hear the end of it. If he
knew I was scared, he’d want to send a whole brigade with me to
every birth I went, to make sure I was safe.
I consider a call to Kate or Cassandra or Bea. It would be a great
comfort to have someone on the other end of the line, keeping me
company. But it’s three-thirty in the morning. I can’t call and wake
someone up.
I hasten my pace. By the time I’m halfway across the garage, I’ve
broken into a run. I’m sweating, my breath coming so fast that I have
trouble catching it. My pulse pounds in my ears.
I reach the car. I yank open the door and nearly dive into the
driver’s seat. I slam the door closed. I tap the button and activate the
locks, but that’s only a partial relief because there’s still the fear that
when I look in my rearview mirror, someone will be there. My fears
aren’t unfounded, because of the text messages. I hope you die. I
hope you rot in hell. I have every reason to be scared, though I’ve
tried my best to convince myself that the texts are only a prank, that
someone with a sick sense of humor is sending them, though I don’t
know anyone like that.