Follow Me Back (complete first draft of the published book)

Chapter 27: Detour

Chapter 27: Detour

February 19, 2014

"Excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt."

Blair made no response. An infinitesimal rise and fall of one shoulder served as the only indication that another voice had spoken. The tall, lanky figure, dressed in jeans and a dark grey sweatshirt, merely slumped down further in the seat of the Greyhound bus.

The middle-aged woman standing in the aisle cleared her throat again. "Is the window seat taken?"

Blair glanced up now, eyes darting around the bus's dim interior. The seats were filling in. They must have picked up twenty new passengers at the bus depot in Dallas. So much for privacy. No choice but to move the bulky canvas duffel bag that currently occupied the next seat.

"It's all yours," Blair grumbled, as the woman shuffled past and sank down heavily.

"Thank you kindly," she replied. "I do appreciate it. I'm Delilah, by the way. How far are you headed?"

A chatterbox, Blair thought with an internal groan. Perfect. Just perfect. Every other seat had been occupied by the usual late-night bus riders – silent types, safeguarding their anonymity behind drawn-down baseball caps and hooded sweatshirts – but this lady had to be chatterbox.

Blair ignored the woman's question and inserted a pair of beaten up earbuds instead. Just a prop, of course. They didn't work. Cheap drugstore earbuds, doomed from the start. The left ear had blown out somewhere around Baton Rouge, and the right ear had died an untimely death a few hours later, just outside of Houston. But that didn't matter. The earbuds served their purpose well enough – universal sign language for: "I don't want to talk."

"Suit yourself," the woman muttered.

Blair ignored her, flicking on a phone instead. Twitter had signed itself back out again. It kept doing that, ever since the latest software update – a new glitch in the system that wouldn't allow two different phones to remain signed in to the same account.

Some misguided attempt at cyber-security, no doubt. A minor nuisance. Nothing more. Blair found it easy enough to sign back in to Twitter every time.

Username: @EricThornSucks

Password: password

Who used "password," anyway? No one. That's who. No one who actually wanted privacy. This couldn't even be considered hacking, really. That password wasn't a password at all.  It was a red carpet, rolled out. An invitation.

Blair directed a furtive glance at the woman in the window seat. The woman had leaned back and closed her eyes.

Good, Blair thought with a fleeting smile. No time for idle chit-chat. Not tonight. Not when there were Twitter feeds to check . . . Private messages to read.

And re-read.

And re-read.

And re-read. . . .

***

Timestamp 1/24/14, 1:58 AM:

Taylor: Tell me the truth, Tessa.

Tessa: Ummm the truth about what?

Taylor: Nothing. Forget it.

Tessa: What are you talking about?

Taylor: Nothing. It's just late. I'm in a weird mood.

Tessa: What kind of weird mood?

Taylor: I dunno. Restless, I guess.

Tessa: Oh