The tips of my fingers were numb and hard as rock. Frozen wisps of white frost clung to my fitted, brown leather trench coat like velcro and settled comfortably on the white beanie my grandma had knitted me before I left for school. She had figured that New York winters merited the accessories we usually scoffed at in California. It was nice, then, with my long, straight hair hanging down my neck over my scarf, as I stood rooted to the snow powdered street just in front of my car. The windshield was grey with ice that had grown over the glass in the four hours I had been in class.
Etched into the ice were four words.
WE NEED TO TALK
It was a prank. It had to be. It looked like something Patrick would try, just to get a reaction There was probably a camera hidden somewhere. I almost rolled my eyes, but, in the pit of my stomach, there was just the slightest tinge of doubt. An irrational, incoherent flutter that reminded me that I was the queen of overthinking little things and looking for subliminal messages where there were none. Stop thinking about why someone would have written to me, if it being scratched on the windshield meant anything specific, if the time of day had anything to do with it, or my past, everything I had given up when I moved to New York to attend college like every other young adult.
It was just a prank.
I released a breath and shook my head, reaching forward and brushing my gloved fingers across the frosted glass, rubbing it clean. The handful of people scattered down the long stretch of York Avenue were doing the same. There was nothing unusual about me.
Why would anyone try to send me a message? It was ridiculous.
Still, I glanced over my shoulder as I ducked into the driver's seat.
They might have found me.