Page 13 of Prodigal Son

“I know who you are.”

Of course, he did. He had her purse. But what would the authorities go by when they only found her remains? How much more pain would she suffer before this nightmare ended?

A tear rolled down her cheek. She didn’t want to die.

CHAPTER 4

Juniper’s gaze lifted from her phone as the bell above the door chimed and a tourist stepped into the shop. Frankincense and other herbs snaked into the hazy air, forming a smoky trail from the altar in the corner. A purple tapestry tinted the sunlight seeping through the window, which wasn’t much, due to the store entrance leading underground.

“Crystals are twenty percent off today, and incense sticks are buy one get one,” she told the man. It was the same speech every customer got.

“I’m looking for the owner of this shop, Mabel Tempest.”

Juniper glanced up from her phone again, raising a pierced brow at the sight of the man’s clothing. Was he Amish? Unimpressed, she called, “Aunt Bel, someone’s here to see you.” Her attention returned to her phone as her thumbs swiped quickly to the next screen.

At the back of the store, the beaded curtain rattled as Mabel appeared, still chewing whatever she’d just taken a bite of. She coasted a hand over her dark curls in an attempt to tame her long mane, but the wiry silver coils never settled. Aunt Bel claimed the gray hairs were the bane of her youth and the badge of her wisdom, a prized sign that she’d officially reached the rank of crone.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” The man crossed the store slowly. “Are you Mabel Tempest?”

“Who wants to know?”

Mabel’s guarded tone was unexpected. Her clothes might be sewn of tattered rags in too many patterns to count, but Juniper’s aunt was no flake. She read people better than most people read books. And she accepted all walks of life into her store. So why was she eyeing this man with such disdain?

“My name is Jonas Hartzler. I’m—”

“I know what you are.” Aunt Bel’s arms crossed over her chest. The long crystal pendant hanging from her throat glinted against her freckled skin. She sniffed the air and frowned. “You’re ill.” Her plain, oval face tilted, surrounded by a spill of salt and pepper curls. “How is that possible?”

“Is there a place we could speak privately?”

She studied him for a moment, reading something from his presence, then nodding concisely. “Juniper, keep an eye on things while I’m in the back.”

“I’ll do my best,” Juniper said dryly, swiping her finger over her phone, then mumbling, “First customer all day, but whatever.”

Mabel parted the beaded curtain and waved Jonas toward the shadowed back room. The temperature dropped and the skin on Juniper’s neck prickled as the curtain swished shut behind them.

Losing interest in her phone, she left the register and grabbed the feather duster. Sweeping off the crystal displays, she worked her way closer to the back room.

“We don’t get many of your kind around here,” Aunt Bel said.

“Amish?”

Mabel chuckled. “Sure.”

Through the beaded curtain, Juniper could see the wooden cabinets that traced the perimeter and the soapstone countertop cluttered with various plants and jars. Herbs hung from a ladder suspended from the ceiling. Juniper planned on stealing some of her aunt’s herbs for later tonight.

“Have a seat, Jonas.”

A small round table nestled into the corner with two simple chairs tucked underneath. The trickle of the fountain in the corner of the shop broke their silence, accompanied by the quiet melody of Native American flutes streaming from the speaker at the front of the store.

Hardened wax dribbled from the mouths of wine jugs where candles burned throughout the back room, making it difficult to see through the shadows. It was an intentional, shrouded vibe that made palm readings that much more convincing, according to her aunts.

Juniper dusted the mortar and pestle that sat by the spell station. A chalice of crushed flowers and seeds made an offering beside Aunt Bel’s book of shadows. Runes scribbled across the thick, aged parchment made sure her notes stayed safe from wandering eyes.

“How did you sense my illness?” the man asked.

“There’s a smell.”

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