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Turning the corner, Yvette was instantly on guard. A querulous niggle plopped in her gut, her body in overdrive, her pace slackened, her mind raced. Don’t be daft, commenced the interior monologue. He’s probably waiting for his kids. Might not even be a ‘he’. She kicked her own butt. Was she no better than Auntie Raelene crossing the lane as the black fellas kept coming?
She could smell sausages and onions frying. Here she was, some prissy chick, too scared to walk down the bloody road. She stepped over the gutter where the debris had banked up from the downpour of the night before. The parking lights were drilling into the back of her iris, and the idling engine puffed out the stench of carbon monoxide. She sensed the head in the dark of the cabin, the white of the eyes drilling her in return.
The driver’s door creaked open.
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