I hurry to the milk aisle so I can get out of here.
It’s probably just coincidence.He is just a guy.My neighbor.He probably shops here all the time.This town only has one Walmart.
But Marines do not believe in coincidence, and the way he moved—economical, aware, balanced on the balls of his feet—tells me he is military or former military.He might be one of Randall’s goons doing recon on me.
The refrigerator cases hum and click, condensation beading on the glass doors.I grab milk and eggs, then make my way to checkout.I need to get home, lock the door, and grab my pistol.Concealed carry permit or not, I’m never leaving home again without it.
The cashier rings up my items while I scan the parking lot through the glass doors.The Ram is still there.The engine is still running.Was the plan to grab me here while my hands were full of groceries and toss me into the truck?
My chest constricts.My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the beep of the scanner.
"That will be forty-two seventeen," the cashier says.
I swipe my card—debit, not credit, because credit cards leave better trails—and grab my bags.The plastic handles cut into my palms. I could swing them like a weapon if I needed to.
Outside, the October wind cuts through my jacket like a blade.The sky is the color of old concrete, heavy with clouds that promise rain.I walk toward my Honda with my head up, posture confident.Never show weakness.Never let them see you are afraid.That was drilled into me at Parris Island, and it has kept me alive more times than I can count.
The Ram's exhaust puffs white in the cold air.
Twenty feet from my car, I hear footsteps behind me.Close.Too close.Heavy boots on asphalt.
I spin, my knee coming up so I can lash out a vicious side kick.My adrenaline spikes so hard my vision narrows to a tunnel.
My neighbor stops short, both hands visible, palms out.His stance is non-threatening but ready."Easy."
His voice is the kind that gives orders and expects them to be followed.It makes my spine go rigid with old reflexes that have nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with survival.
I don’t relax."Are you following me?"
"No."He glances at the Ram, then back at me.His eyes are calm.Too calm."But someone is."
My blood turns to ice.Everything around me—the parking lot, the wind, the distant sound of traffic on Route 460—goes distant and muffled."What are you talking about?"
"Black Dodge.Three rows over.He has been watching you since you parked."He shifts slightly, putting himself between me and the truck.The movement is subtle, protective, and so smooth it is obvious he has done this before.Many times."Do you know him?"
I want to lie.I should lie.
But something in his stance—the way he positioned himself as a shield without asking permission, the calm readiness in his posture, the fact that he noticed what I noticed—tells me he is not going to let this go.
"Maybe," I say.
"Maybe."He repeats it like he is tasting it, deciding if it is bullshit.His eyes narrow slightly."You need help getting home?"
"I am fine."
"Is that why you almost kicked my head off in a Walmart parking lot?"
I force myself to relax.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"Sure you don’t."His eyes flick to the Ram again, tracking."I’m parked next to you, and I am heading home anyway.So if you want to walk over there together with me, that works for both of us."
It is not a suggestion.It is a tactical assessment presented as an offer, the kind of phrasing that gives me the illusion of choice while making it clear he has already decided what is going to happen.
I hate that I am relieved.
"Fine," I mutter.I’ll take the help where I can get it.
We walk side by side toward my car.He is not touching me, but I can feel the heat radiating off him that makes me hyperaware of how close he is.How big he is.How he could hurt me if he wanted to.I wouldn’t be easy.I could use his height and weight against him. But I wouldn’t get out of the scuffle unscathed.
