Traffic (Complete two-hundred pages) (Moving to Kindle Vella in 30 Days! )

20

SHADOW

HE LOOKED UP AND SAW ONLY two ceiling lights were on. One light was a spotlight directly over him. The other only light-- which he panned his eyes to see down the very caboose of the train-- was shining over a passenger seat, where he spotted the back of the same woman's head, her dark black hair shining with gloss.

He felt his heart sink deep into his gut. He was panting again.

"Hello?" he said. Not loud enough. He edged closer, his hands touching the backs of the chairs, and he entered the dark. The chairs disappeared into the black and the only light behind him turned off as he came closer. He could have been walking on a bed of spiders and wouldn't know because his focus was so tied to the head of the woman. Entranced, he felt his body dissipate into the air as his conscience drifted toward her.

Familiar. The back of her head was like an old family photograph you'd never seen before but maybe once at the age of two. The light above her caught fire and radiated light like a furnace that smoldered her dark hair to a charring crisp. And row-by-row he finally came to her, and reached her, seeing that over her shoulder she was reading something in her hands.

The Count of Monte Cristo.

"It was this or the Economist," she said, sensing his smell. "But I thought the world was so strange, that I'd try fiction for a change." Her accent was thickly Spanish. And beautifully exotic to the native ear. Jack sat down at the sound of her voice. Thoroughly engaged a seat behind her. Chained to his chair. Scared and listening. Could this be her?