Page 17 of Follow Her Down
She doesn’t notice me watching.Most people don’t.It’s the one skill from my military days that’s actually useful in this job—the ability to observe without being observed.
It’s not her appearance that catches my attention, though she’s striking in her own way.It’s how she holds herself, like someone who’s been broken and put back together with the wrong pieces.Someone who’s wearing their body like an ill-fitting suit.
I grab my coffee from the machine, add enough sugar to make my teeth ache, and drift toward her.
Her head turns slowly as I approach.Blue eyes size me up, calculating, looking for a threat, escape routes, weaknesses.I recognize the look because I wear it myself.
“Can I help you?”Her voice is husky, unused.Like she saves her words for necessity rather than to fill silences.
“Just letting you know I’ll pay for my coffee whenever you’re ready.”I smile, aiming for polite.“Detective Eddie Crowe.Sheriff’s department.”
Something flickers behind her eyes at the mention of the sheriff’s department.Not quite fear, more like recognition.Maybe even purpose.I file that away.
“Sera Vale.”She shifts her weight subtly, redistributing herself, making herself smaller.“Just moved in.”
“Ah, I’ve heard.The old Milligan place on Lakeview, right?The one they say is haunted?”I take a sip of my coffee.It tastes like hot dirt with notes of plastic and a side of crusty socks.“Brave choice.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she says, but her fingers twitch to her throat, and her eyes drift momentarily toward the window, like she’s remembering something that contradicts her statement.
Lie number one.
“What brings you to Wichita?Not many people choose this place on purpose.”
She gives me a practiced smile that never reaches her eyes.“Just needed a change.Somewhere quiet.Less noise.”
That’s lie number two, maybe three if we’re counting the smile.Her shoulders are too tense for someone seeking quiet.Her eyes scan the store every eleven seconds—the door, the windows, the rest of the snack aisle, blind spots.The habits of someone who expects danger, like someone who’s been hurt before.
“Well, welcome to Wichita,” I say, keeping my tone light.“Though I should warn you, it’s not as quiet as the brochures claim.”
Especially with a serial killer running rampant.And what happened to David Farley just yesterday.
I shake my head to rid myself of the thought.
“It seems peaceful enough,” she replies, turning back to the shelves.
“The quiet ones are always hiding something.”I pause.“Cities and people.”
That gets me a real look.A fraction of genuine interest before her cool mask slides back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know before checking that it’s not good news.Nothing good happens at 10:57 p.m.
It’s a text from Vincent:Another body.Red Hands’ signature.Get here.
Then he sends me an address.
The coffee suddenly tastes even worse.
“I should get going,” I tell her, pocketing my phone.
“I’ll ring you up.”
I follow her to the checkout desk, eying her ass but not being obvious about it.It’s round and full, and an image of me grabbing handfuls of it while she rides my cock siphons through my professional exterior.
At the checkout, I get a closer look at her face.There’s a kind of hollowness there that sleep won’t fix.I see the same look in my mirror sometimes.
She rings me up.“One dollar, seven cents.”
I hand her exact change, our fingers briefly touching.Hers are cold despite the warmth of the store.She withdraws her hand quickly.
