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smiled, exposing white, slightly crooked teeth. “I’ve never been to Cleveland. Would like to get there someday and see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
    The throbbing lights. The stares. Memories of flashing cameras sent her back to Cleveland…back when…
    She jumped as he spoke.
    “Where you headed?”
    “The McIverson Bed and Breakfast.”
    “Ted and Trina’s place!” Lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You’re gonne love it, but it won’t be easy getting there today.” He glanced toward town. “Hey, tell you what. I’m off duty in a few minutes anyway. What say I lead you there?”
    “I have directions…”
    “Not going to do you much good. It’s the Sweet Potato Festival. The main streets into town are shut down. It’s Ms. Lillian, right?” As he sprinted toward the cruiser he called over his shoulder, “Just pull out behind me and follow close.”
    She groaned. Why God?
    ~*~
    T he tension push from the inside of Roger’s body, ready to explode from his skin, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. How much longer before she would arrive? He picked at the skin on his thumb again, pressing a finger against the raw flesh, relishing the burn, wishing it were more.
    The pair of squirrels ran back across the grass and scampered up the tree. A jet, looking like a shining dart in the sky, left behind a signature trail of vapor. As a child, he used to lie on the grass and trace the streak with his finger, wondering where the plane was going, hoping one day to be on it. Eventually he had caught the flight, only to find out its destination was no better than where he had left.
    “So what’s this lady’s name again?” Bill asked.
    Ted remained focused on the street. “Lillian Hunter. She just got a faculty job at Francis Marion University.”
    “What’s she like?” Roger hoped he sounded only mildly curious, as he would for any new guest, but he wanted to know Ted’s impression of his nemesis.
    “Trina’s the one who booked her. I talked to her for the first time a couple of hours ago when she called to update me on her location.”
    A car approached.
    A crackling and wheezing sound came from the wicker as Ted lifted from the chair.
    The approaching car slowed and then passed the house as it moved up the street toward the square.
    Roger let out his breath. “What’s this Lillian Hunter like?” he repeated.
    “She seems nice enough.” Ted slumped back into the chair.
    “Isn’t she the one that’s coming from Cleveland?” Bill asked. “I can’t keep track of these people coming and going.” The big man leaned over and placed his empty glass on the floor.
    Roger grabbed the arm of the swing, the tipping motion reminding him of a Ferris wheel. He never liked Ferris wheels, not since his mom threatened to toss him off one if he didn’t quit crying. He had been six at the time, and hadn’t stepped foot on a Ferris wheel since.
    Even after Bill sat back in the swing, Roger maintained his death-grip on the arm, tightness building in his chest. Come on Lillian, come on.
    ~*~
    Flashing lights stabbed her eyes as the cruiser passed. The officer extended his arm out the driver’s window motioning her to follow.
    Wishing she were invisible, Lillian pulled onto the road. Squat houses and stores lined both sides of the street. They looked old, weathered by heat, history and time. Teen Mission. Nick’s BBQ. A funeral home with a white limo parked alongside. Someone’s flower garden still full of roses. A single railroad track, flanked on the left by a long, gray building with a picture of cotton painted white on the front.
    Just before the orange barricades that blocked off rows of vendors, the patrol car turned right.
    The two lanes of Broad Street were squeezed into one, the space filled with crowds: walkers, adults pushing strollers, a toddler tethered to a leash as a plush dog face anchored the straps to the child’s back. Middle aged people. Teens. The smell of grease and cotton candy.