Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Being run over had caused it no apparent harm. She turned it in her hands. It was for a right foot. There were no scrapes, no scuffs, no signs of weathering — as if it were made of indestructible stuff. The smooth black leather, cool in the sunless afternoon, wasn’t even dusty. It held an unusual luster, giving the impression of patent, yet seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. There were no size markings or manufacturer’s stamp. Everything about the shoe seemed odd, right down to the lace tips, polished black bone instead of plastic or metal. It dawned on her that it was handmade. Fascinated, she slipped her hand inside. Her arm jerked. The inside of the shoe was body-heat warm.

Denise felt a sudden impulse to drop the shoe and flee. Nervously, she glanced around, feeling on stage. What’s wrong with you, spooked by a lost shoe. She breathed deeply, calming herself. The shoe was warm because hot exhaust had blown in when she had run over it. Simple enough once she figured it out.

With sudden inspiration, she loosened the laces and lifted the tongue. Printed on the inside was a wiggly red design, a stylized letter Y. The owner’s initial? Her face twisted. The shoe was quality, but worthless. Just like people, shoes were only good in pairs.

Her thoughts went to the shoe she had seen the day before. Suppose they were a match? No, what a dumb idea. What sort of freak accident could separate them so widely? Someone would almost have to do it on purpose. I lost a shoe on a trip traveling south, so I tossed out the other one on a different trip, traveling north. Denise smiled at the farfetched scenario. They couldn’t be a pair. Still, it seemed wrong to leave a perfectly good shoe behind. Back in her car again, she placed the shoe beside her on the passenger seat.

Could the first shoe be its mate? As she headed toward Washington, the notion persisted. Maybe she should go and find out, just to satisfy her curiosity. Reaching the Beltway, she tossed the idea back and forth. Was the detour worth another hour and a half when she was already so close to home? Home to her lonely apartment.

The entire notion was ridiculous. What did she have better to do? She was exhausted. Not anymore. The idea of hunting down the other shoe was exhilarating.

The sign for Frederick appeared. That settled it. Wild-goose chase or not, she was going. The shoe slid to the floor and landed in the same position as if someone were wearing it. Amused, Denise imagined the attire of an imaginary companion. To go with his handmade shoe, he needed a custom-tailored suit. The kind a diplomat or the heir to a vast fortune would wear. He would be handsome, that went without saying. Suave and darkly handsome.

Shortly before Frederick, she refilled the gas tank. Once she found the shoe — if she found it — she would drive straight home without stopping. At least she wouldn’t go home alone.

She passed the restaurant where she and Paul had eaten lunch. Her pulse quickened. Almost there.

The shoe appeared. Denise laughed in a giddy way, feeling almost as if she had conjured up the image. From a distance, it looked a match to the one she had already. Only, of course, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Eyes bright, she pulled to the shoulder and coasted up to her prize.

Leaving her engine running, she got out and rounded the front of her car. The shoe sat several feet in front of the bumper. Her nerves hummed. It was a man’s black dress shoe. For a left foot. Hands trembling, she picked it up. It was a perfect match to the one in her car. Identical, right down to the black bone lace tips and the stylized initial on the underside of the tongue.

The implausibility stunned her. What had happened was totally outside the normal nature of things. She struggled for breath. If she put her hand inside the shoe, would she find it warm, as if its wearer had just shucked it off?

Something screamed inside her head: Drop it. Throw it away. She was about to do so when the sound of her engine rose above the rush of passing traffic. Denise stared at her car. Someone was at the wheel. No, she was mistaken — it must be her own reflection staring back. Yet in her mind’s eye she saw a foot moving to the accelerator, pressing down. With a cry, she jumped from the car’s path. An air horn blew as a truck swept by. Wind swirled and grit stung her face. She cowered against her fender. Had she been a few inches farther into the roadway, she would have been struck.