I tried to finish this, but it got way too long and seemed to develop a life of its own. So, here is part 2. I think it will finish in part 4.
*****
It was Saturday. Marla finished her regular yoga class and was in a hurry to pick up her kids from the play center down the street. She didn't change or shower, but packed up her yoga mat and water bottle and quickly walked out of the yoga studio. She decided to cut across the park, grab the kids, then head to the parking garage. With luck, she might get Osgood to his soccer game on time.
"Hello, Liz," came a voice she instantly recognized. That voice and the use of that name froze her in her tracks. Her heart leaped into her throat. "It can't be!" she thought as she immediately went into a panic, a cold sweat breaking out all over her body.
She spun, clutching at her shoulder bag, realizing that she had left her mace and rape whistle at home.
"Surprised to see me?" a large, black man in his mid-forties, with a bald head and lots of tattoos sneered at her, leaning against the brick wall next to the entrance to the yoga studio.
She stared, her mouth hanging open.
"You!" she exclaimed, "you're supposed to be in prison!" She looked around frantically for help, for an escape route. She saw a local police officer across the park. "If I scream, he won't be able to get here before it's too late," she thought frantically, starting to back up.
"Been a long time. Twenty-two years, in fact. You look good. Different hair color, a bit older, but I'd recognize those tits and that ass anywhere."
She retreated slowly. "What do you want? Stay away from me!"
He smiled and took a couple of steps closer.
"I'll scream!" she warned him, looking over her shoulder at the cop.
"Don't worry, Liz," he said, holding his hands up, palms open. "I ain't here to kill you. But, we need to talk. We can talk now, or I can call Osgood Whitmore III and set up an appointment. Your choice."
She stepped back more, but he advanced steadily, staying within quick striking distance.
"What do you want, Dante?" She asked nervously.
"Oh, so you remember your ex-husband's name? Fuck, I figured since you done changed your name, maybe you forgot mine."
"What do you want? Why are you here?" she asked, but actually what she meant was "why are you not in prison."
"Well," he laughed, "the State of California decided that I was no longer a threat to society and let me out early."
She couldn't believe it. The judge had sentenced Dante to forty-five years in prison for a variety of crimes including procuring prostitution, attempted murder, and assault with a deadly weapon. She also knew that he had killed at least four people, but they were never able to pin those murders on him. Dante Jones was a very dangerous man, and he was pissed off.
"Yeah," he continued, "so the way I figure it, you owe me for twenty-two years."
"Owe you? Owe you for what?" she shouted now, growing increasingly alarmed, though nobody seemed to notice.
Dante gestured for Marla to calm down. "No need for shouting, Liz. We're just talking. If I were angry and wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already. How do you think I knew where you would be today? I've been watching you, following your every move, for a month."
"How is this possible?" she thought. When she agreed to testify against her then-husband, the Marshals had assured her that she would be safe with a new identity in a new town. They promised that if Dante ever got out, they would notify her and protect her. They clearly lied.
"How?" she started to ask, but he cut her off.
"How did I find you?" he finished for her.
She nodded.
"Well, for someone in witness protection, you keep a pretty high profile. You married one of the wealthiest old bastards in America. You are always out doing good deeds for the community. But, it was that article in Fortune two months ago that did it. I just happened to be looking at it while I was getting my first haircut as a free man. Guess how surprised I was to read about his old fuck with more money than Donald Trump and see him standing next to his two kids and my wife."
Anger flared, and she snapped back, "I'm not your wife! That ended when you went to prison!"
"When you sent me to prison, you fucking cunt," he corrected her, angrily, "Twenty-two fucking years I sat in that prison, because of you."
"I didn't send you there. You did that to yourself!"
"Yeah, right," he answered, stepping closer, menacingly. "You made sure they put me away. You gave them all the proof they needed. You even wore a fucking wire! They didn't have shit on me without you. You betrayed me, and then you divorced me."
"You have to go. If you leave now and never contact me again, I won't say anything. If not, I'll go to the cops. You're not allowed within five-hundred yards of me. I can have you sent back to prison."
She could see the rage in his face. He clenched his fists. His body tensed as if he were preparing to leap at her throat. He tilted his head from side to side, working out the tension built up in it, and took a deep breath. "We're just talking. I'm not here to hurt you. But, you owe me, and I want what's coming to me."