"You've been parked behind that billboard across the street for an hour," the stranger continued, gesturing vaguely toward the dark, empty lot on the other side of the highway. "You watched three different men pull in, pump gas, and leave without a second glance. But when she pulled up, you suddenly found a reason to walk over here."
Miller swallowed hard. "Listen, pal—"
"I’m not your pal," the stranger cut him off. He took one step closer, invading Miller’s space just slightly. "And your patrol car’s dashcam. The one mounted in your cruiser right over there?" He pointed to the police SUV idling near the edge of the gas station lot. "It just happens to be angled thirty degrees to the left. Facing the brick wall of the convenience store. Completely out of frame from this interaction."
I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. This hadn't been a random stop. This hadn't been an officer being a little too aggressive.
He had prepared for this. He had turned off his camera. He had angled his dashcam away. He had isolated me on purpose.
Miller realized he was trapped in the conversation. He tried to pivot, turning his aggression back toward me in a desperate attempt to regain the upper hand. He pointed a thick finger at my face.
"Get in your vehicle right now," Miller barked at me. "Do not leave the premises. You stay in your car until I am done dealing with this obstruction."
I flinched, my hand tightening around my keys. My instinct screamed at me to get in, lock the doors, and hide.
But before I could move, the stranger stepped smoothly between us, cutting off Miller’s line of sight to me entirely.
"She’s not getting in the car," the stranger said. "And she’s not waiting for you."
"I am giving her a lawful order!" Miller shouted, his voice cracking with panic.
"You aren't giving anyone orders tonight," the stranger said. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket with his left hand. For a terrifying second, I thought Miller was going to draw his weapon. The officer’s hand hovered over his holster.
Instead of a weapon, the stranger pulled out a small, worn black leather notebook. He flipped it open with his thumb, not even looking at the pages.
"November 4th," the stranger read aloud, his eyes fixed on Miller. "11:45 p.m. A twenty-two-year-old college student pulled over on Route 9 for a broken taillight that wasn't actually broken. Your body camera malfunctioned."
Miller’s face turned the color of ash.
"November 12th," the stranger continued, his voice echoing in the quiet rain. "1:15 a.m. A woman driving home from her waitressing shift. You followed her for four miles until she turned onto a dark residential street before lighting her up. Your dashcam footage was conveniently corrupted."
I put a hand over my mouth, the cold rain mixing with the hot tears of pure terror finally spilling over my eyelashes. I wasn't the first. I was just the latest.
"November 18th," the stranger said, closing the notebook with a soft, final snap. "And now tonight. You have a very specific routine, don't you, Miller?"