Page 35 of Alik

“Thank you, Stew,” the bald man with a constant frown says as he pats the crier’s back and ushers him off the stage. He clears his throat and splays his hands. “Would anyone else like to speak?”

I turn my eyes back to Olive. She doesn’t notice me. I’ve been tailing her for the last hour and a half, barely concealing myself, and she hasn’t noticed me once.

How will she ever see the Irish coming?

An anorexic-looking woman raises her hand and stands, but I don’t take my eyes off Olive as the woman walks to the podium.

“Hi, I’m Fran, and I’m an addict.”

“Hi Fran,” a chorus calls, including Olive.

My phone vibrates, and I slink lower in the pew as I take my phone from my pocket.

Where are you?Sergey, a fellow soldier asks.

31st and Marland.

Coming now. Boss wants to see you.

I stare at the screen another few moments in case he decides to elaborate then slip the device back into my pocket. It’s just as well. I’m only killing time being here, doing this pointless people watching. It certainly wasn’t ordered.

I’m just about to stand when Olive rises from the pew.

I aim my gaze at the woman as I slink lower. I’m situated within a group of people in the back and have a hoodie pulled over my head with glasses on, not suspicious attire for a shame-fest like this. Still, I wait for her to walk right up to me.

She scurries past the pews with her notebook clutched to her chest.

Does she carry that thingeverywhere? What the hell does she use it for?

I shuffle out of the pew to go after her, following her to the women's restroom near the front of the church. Pressing my ear against the door, I hear nothing, so I chance slipping inside.

Her sneakers peek out at me beneath one of the stalls. I don’t think she heard me, so I turn to leave before she notices I’m in here.

Then I spot it.

The black notebook. It rests on the bathroom sink, the sight of it shooting excitement down my arms.

It’s ridiculous to be so enthusiastic about something so …trivial. Mundane. A dead girl’s journal. But the moment I spot the thing, I don’t question if I should take it. In two steps, I pluck it from the sink and exit the women’s restroom, making a beeline for the church doors.

Once I’m outside, I walk to the corner where I told Sergey I’d be and open the book, only to slam it shut when the church door bursts open and Olive barrels onto the steps.

I tuck the book inside my jacket and watch her whip her head around in a panic, searching for the thief who stole her precious belonging. Unlike when I found her the other night, the sidewalk is too busy for her to spot the culprit as she pulls at her hair in distress.

Jesus, is it that important?

Her hands unclench from her hair and lower to her sides at the same time her back straightens. When she turns to look this way again, she doesn’t look fearful, she looks pissed. She looks…

Huh. She kind of looks deadly. The Terminator seeking its target.

I tuck my hands into my pockets as I watch her, and when her eyes seem to find me, anticipation lifts my chest.

Will she recognize me behind my glasses and hood?

Will she try to chase after me?

Will she yell out for help as if I’ve stolen her purse instead of her thoughts?

None of the above.

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