Page 12 of The Woman on the Jury

“He’s akiller,” I reminded her.

“He was acquitted.”

“No, he wasn’t. It was a hung jury.”

“Still. The murder thing isn’t an immediate red flag.”

“You’re insane.”

“That’s why you love me,” she said. “Want to go grab dinner with me?” she asked.

“Yes, she does,” my grandfather said, shuffling down the aisle toward us. I swear he was slower with each passing day. I know he ached. Whenever he showed up in the morning, he had the strong scent of pain cream still clinging to him from the night before.

“No, I’m finishing up here tonight,” I said.

“No, you’re going to dinner with your pretty friend,” he insisted, moving behind the counter, a little more energized from his hour-long nap in the chair. “I can close up here tonight. No,” he said, cutting off my objection. “Go,” he demanded, reaching under the counter for his little cooler that I swear he had my entire life, and pulling out his sandwich, soda, and little store-bought brownie for dessert.

“You heard the man,” Lauren said, giving him one of her big, disarming smiles. Pop-Pop was not unaffected.

I had to admit, even if a part of me felt guilty for it, I was glad to be getting out for a bit. To get a good meal. To get lost in Lauren’s world for a night instead of the rows of antiques of unknown origins at the shop.

“Let me walk back with you,” she demanded.

“It’s the complete opposite direction you need to go in. Besides, those shoes…” I said, shaking my head at her ice-pick heels.

“They are pretty though,” she said, kicking them back and striking a pose. “Okay. Be safe. Love you,” she said, giving me a quick hug, then heading off in her direction.

I figured she had two to five years before she would never walk anywhere again, save for fun. She was going to be one of those people being driven around in a town car by her own personal driver.

And I’d never met anyone who would deserve it more.

Each block back toward the shop, I felt the exhaustion digging deeper into my bones. Until every step felt weighted, and my eyelids were only at half-mast.

I’d given up my old apartment when I’d decided to devote myself to the shop. Which meant I was staying in one of the ones above the shop, right next to my grandfather’s little shoebox where he’d spent his whole life. And his father before him.

I was living, breathing, eating, and sleeping this building.

One without an elevator.

My thighs were crying at the idea of climbing the stairs upward again.

I stopped short, though, as I came to the shop.

The shop that should have been closed.

With the lights off.

And the security gate down.

But it was still bright inside, and not only was the security gate not down, but the door was slightly open.

Worried my grandfather had taken another of his many naps and simply lost track of time, I moved inside.

“Pop-Pop?” I called to the silence in the shop.

He always snored.

Always.

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