Monday, June 11th, 2012
Keira Swain sits in unusually bad traffic behind the wheel of her RAV4. Her fingers curl in to choke the steering wheel, then unclench. She’s going to be late.
She looks around to take stock: she’s on Las Vegas Boulevard, staring right at the Stratosphere, some two and a half miles from the Paris, where she keeps the books. Three and a half, after she doubles back along the divided highway at Veer Towers. If traffic is this bad all the way along the strip, she thinks, I’ll probably be better off jogging East at Sahara and then turning South on Paradise. The more she thinks it over, the more the plan makes sense. The light traffic along Sahara, coming into view now, gives her hope.
Time to be a rock star accountant, she thinks with a grin as she flips her blinker to change lanes. Edward had called her that – “You must be the rock star of accountants,” he’d said. Those agents last night had asked an awful lot of questions about him. She checks her mirror, and a black sedan jumps out at her from the receding traffic.
Probably just my imagination.
She looks again. Still there. She can’t see the driver, though.
Probably just a coincidence.
As she approaches the light at Sahara Avenue, she sees the sedan flip its own blinker and queue up behind her some four cars back.
We’ve probably just got the same idea.
Nevertheless, as she stares down the traffic light, she forms a plan.