I plucked the wallet out of a crater-sized pothole and shook the mud off. Its owner was already halfway down the block. He looked tame enough - leather jacket, faded jeans, dark hair that played freeze tag with the wind. He sprinted across Nicollet Avenue, skipped up to the curb, and proceeded on his way without a sideways glance around him.
Forget about meeting Dad and catching a safe ride home. I had more important things to do. Like chase a stranger through downtown Minneapolis. On a Wednesday night. In the dark. Alone.
I could imagine what my sister would have said: You have no common sense, Nikki. He could be a drug dealer or... or a murderer. I mean, come on. Where's your head?
And I would have replied: Give it a break, Shani. The world is not full of freaks who are out to kill you.
There was more to my carefree attitude than a need to show her wrong. I was like a wind-up toy springing back to life, and after so many months of feeling like shit, it was a welcome change. Besides, he looked pretty good in those jeans.
He entered the Foshay Tower, and I followed half a minute behind. I came to a full stop and blinked as the door shut behind me. Pink and blue neon lights shone off the walls and cascaded over a checkered floor. Sitting on a donut-shaped desk was a lighted “W”, and to the right was a lounge of sorts with black leather chairs, a wrap-around sofa, and a hot-pink beaded centerpiece that dropped straight from the ceiling.