“Hey, what’s that,” he asks, reaching to the windshield wiper where an envelope is tucked safely under it.
“No idea.” I take it from him. My name is on the front: Josephine O’Malley.
“O’Malley?” he asks, as if trying to remember something.
I don’t answer; I just tear open the seal.
Inside is a single photograph.
My stomach drops. My heart falls.
I let out a gasp, and the photograph falls from my trembling fingers.
“What is it?” McQueen picks it up from the sidewalk. “Holy shit, who took this?” He looks around the empty street, the dark night.
“I don’t know.” My eyes fill with tears born from terror.
The photograph is of me this afternoon.
Naked.
In the locker room.
On top of McQueen.