Free Statue of Limitations by Tamar Myers

the police on the spare cell phone I kept in the car, because I needed both hands to steer. It’s not easy to handle a car hurtling down a rough asphalt road at ninety-plus miles.
    â€œUse your head, dummy,” I shouted aloud. “Don’t freak out, dear. Use your head.” Incidentally, I often call myself “dear” when talking to myself. If I don’t consider myself precious, who will?
    Fortunately, I often take my own advice as well. This time I took it literally. I had to stand on the gas pedal and crane my neck in order to get my brow to make contact with the center of the steering wheel, but when I did, I found the horn immediately. If I hadn’t expected the blast—and there was just one short one—I would have veered off the road for sure. Lord knows I came dangerously close while honking with my head.
    I looked in the rearview mirror as soon as I felt back in control. My intention had not been to startle my tormentor, but to draw attention to us. Although we still had not encountered traffic, there were some homes ahead, scattered along the edge of the marsh, and hopefully some kind soul, looking out his or her picture window, would summonhelp. Unless two vehicles mate—a rare occurrence even in car-crazy South Carolina—such close proximity would be a certain indicator of foul play. The same thought must have occurred to the tailgater. After a few seconds he dropped back a dozen yards, and then in a cloud of smoke he roared past me and into the horizon.
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    â€œBut you pulled over and called the police the instant you could, right?” The concern on Bob’s face was touching, but his tone reminded me of my high school algebra teacher, Mr. Sawyers, when he asked the class to turn in their homework.
    â€œOf course not. I have my lunch date, and you know how time-consuming filling out a police report can be.”
    We were standing on the sidewalk in front of Slightly North of Broad. Both the Rob-Bobs and I had shown up five minutes early, but unless both of the Papadopouluses had popped in to use the potty, they had yet to arrive.
    Rob laid a protective arm around my shoulders. He is the younger brother I wish I had.
    â€œAbby, darling, Bob and I don’t fill out a great deal of police reports. Yet when we do, you’re always somehow involved.”
    I was about to protest when I spotted the well-dressed couple strolling up East Bay. Apparently they had elected to walk to the restaurant.
    â€œOkay, you guys, go on and get yourselves seated. They’re coming.”
    Rob slid his arm down my back. “Where? Not that pair of giant marshmallows wearing identical shorts and tank tops! Slime green and purple spandex—that was so 1990s.”
    Bob shuddered. “There should be a law against men who dine in tank tops. Underarm hair does not mix with food.” He shuddered again. “Surely a restaurant this nice has a dress code.”
    â€œRelax guys, that’s not them. It’s the couple behind them. Tall, good-looking man—”
    â€œYou mean the stud?” Rob asked.
    â€œHey!” Bob is the less physically blessed half of the Rob-Bobs, and therefore a mite insecure.
    â€œGuys, hurry up. I don’t want them to know you’re with me.” I gave Rob a gentle push.
    â€œAll right, darling. Just make sure you seat him facing me.” Of course he was only teasing his partner. They have been together eleven years and are as faithful as any heterosexual couple—hmm, perhaps I shouldn’t take Rob’s fidelity for granted.
    At any rate, my friends slipped inside the restaurant while I straightened my clothes and pasted a cheery Charleston smile on my face. Every Southern girl of good breeding is skilled in the art of faux friendliness, so I had no doubts that mine was convincing.
    The New Yorkers were quick to respond withporcelain smiles of their own, and when Nick shook my hand, I felt a jolt of