Page 122 of Unexpected Hero

That’s crazy, Lettie. You’ve been here more than a month, and no one has bothered you once.

With my key fob securely in my hand, I advance the rest of the way to my car as fast as my throbbing toes will allow. Another glance around me, and then I duck into my car, swipe the phone from the console and pop back up. As my head clears the hood of the car, another flash of something in the distance draws my attention.

“Hello? Is someone there?” I call out into the night.

There’s no answer, and I have no clue why I thought there would be. If someone were poised to attack, why on God’s green earth would they announce themselves?

It’s official. I’d be the first one killed in a horror movie.

I clear my head with a few blinks, lock the car, and propel my ass toward my room. The longer I stay out here in the wee hours of the morning, the more delusional my thoughts will get. That’s some type of unwritten law of nature.

Somewhere in the distance, a couple is arguing, and their voices echo off the nearby pool deck. Like the nosy bitch I am, I strain to hear the topic of tonight’s battle royale. Free entertainment is one of the few perks of living at a trashy hotel.

When my feet stutter to a near stop to give me a better listen, a scuffing noise comes from behind me, sounding like rubber-soled shoes on the pavement.

My heart skitters to a stop, my pulse stalling out.

Someone’s following me.

I whip my head to the sides, searching for someone who might be in the hotel’s common area — an ally or salvation. But it’s all quiet tonight, except for the arguing couple. They’re on the second level, so they won’t be much help if I’m about to be attacked.

Do I fight or flee?

My toes are still killing me, so running seems foolhearted. As I inhale, preparing to fight, I realize how paranoid I’ve become.

This is ludicrous. If someone were out to get me, I’d have done been gotten by now.

It’s all in my head. I’m overreacting, in accordance with the Violet Holt Charter, Sections 3-10.

Annoyed with myself, I take three ambling steps forward as an idea takes shape. If I turn around unexpectedly and no one is there, it’ll prove I’m not being followed. Right? Then I won’t be in a tizzy all night long, compelled to barricade my hotel room door with my dresser.

Genius plan, Lettie.

I lurch another few steps, feigning casualness. In a rush, I spin around with my fists held in front of me for protection. I even add a playful “ah-ha” to sell my fictitious gotcha moment.

To my astonishment, it’s not fictitious.

A man is there.

Standing about thirty feet behind me, wearing a dark gray hoodie and staring right at me.

I straighten my spine, roll back my shoulders, and seethe with rage. “James! What the hell are you doing following me? Are ya tryin’ to give me a heart attack?”

He slumps forward, hunching in on himself. That’s the posture of a busted man right there.

In a huff, I stomp toward him, not giving two shits that my toes are screaming at me. As I approach, he removes the hood from his head and holds his palms out in front of him to placate me.

Good luck trying to calm me down tonight, buddy.

Before I get too close, I plant my feet and skewer him with an angry glare. “Well?”

“Hi, Lettie.”

My eye twitches. “Hi, Lettie? That’s what you have to say for yourself? Hi, Lettie?”

The simple shrug he offers as a response would be comical if I weren’t spittin’ mad and ready to blow my top.

“You scared the shit out of me. Why are you following me like a creepy stalker?”

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