Page 11 of Follow Her Down
“So do graveyards.At least the house pretends to be livable,” I say.
Something flickers across his face—not recognition, but interest.He looks at me properly for the first time, his gaze traveling from my face down to my hands, which I’ve flattened on the counter to keep them from trembling or gouging out his eyeballs.
“Just gas on pump four and a donut today,” he says finally, turning away from me to scan the store.“Glazed.And a receipt.”
Rick nudges me.“Go ahead.Ring him up.”
I move to the register like a woman in a dream, my body on autopilot.Rick retrieves a donut from the case and then stands too close, giving me instructions I don’t need.
“That’ll be $41.75,” I say.
Vincent hands me a credit card, our fingers brushing for a microsecond.Surprisingly, I feel nothing.No revulsion.No doom.Just skin against skin.
The register beeps as I punch in the sale.The receipt prints, and I tear it off, handing it to him with another closed-lip smile.
“Have a nice day,” I say, my voice steady.
Vincent tips his hat, the gesture so “Kansas sheriff” it borders on parody.“You too, Ms.Vale.”
I freeze.Rick never told him my faux last name.
Then I remember—it must be on my nametag.I glance down.Sure enough,SERA VALEis printed in blocky letters.
He turns and walks out, donut bag in hand, back straight, shoulders squared.Through the window, I watch him cross to his patrol car.
I breathe again, a shuddering exhale that makes Rick glance at me.
“You okay?You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just a guided tour through my personal hell.”
“What?”Rick says on his way to the back room.
The bell chimes again, and I turn toward the door.
The man who enters is nothing like Vincent.Where Vincent is clean-cut, this man is rugged.Where Vincent is composed, this man is kinetic, with energy pouring off him in almost visible waves.He fills the small store with his presence, a grin spreading across his face when he spots me.
He’s tall and huge, the kind of veiny, muscular build that comes from needles full of juice and hours at the gym.His blond hair is tousled, falling across his forehead in a way that should look messy but somehow works.Stubble darkens his jaw, and there’s a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
But it’s his eyes that catch me, so blue and bright and intense that they snag my breaths.The kind of eyes that see too much.
He strides directly to the counter, still grinning.No pretense of browsing.No snatching up a coffee cup or a candy bar on his way.It’s like he’s not here to buy anything.
He’s here for me.
“Ach, hello there, bonnie lass,” he says, and I catch a thick accent.Scottish, maybe?“What a pleasant surprise.”
I shift into customer-service mode, though something about him puts me on edge.“Can I help you?”
“Aye.”He leans against the counter, studying my nametag.“Sera.Dead braw name, that.”
“Okay…” I have no idea what he’s saying.
“I’m James.”He extends a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, I shake it.His grip is firm, his palm calloused.“James MacDonald.”
“Okay…” I say again, pulling my hand back when he holds on a beat too long.
Rick emerges from the stockroom with a huge cardboard box of tampons, eyeing James with mild irritation.“You buying something today, or just harassing my new employee?”
