She laughs. “Girl, you’re as tiny as a hummingbird.” I snicker. Don’t I wish. “But all right. I’ll be right back.”
The bell jingles behind her, leaving me alone with the hum of dryers and my own thoughts. Just as I’m finishing up with Mrs. Fletcher’s hair, the bell above the door chimes again.
I look up, expecting Norma Jean to have forgotten her wallet. She’s famous for that. But instead, a man in his thirties strolls in. He’s the picture of casual wealth. An overpriced golf polo, crisp khaki pants, and leather loafers that have never met a speck of dirt. Around here, that’s the uniform of rich tourists who take a wrong turn off the highway and somehow end up downtown instead of at the resort spa.
The local men don’t come in here. They head to Big Sal’s Barber Shop around the corner, where there’s sawdust on the floor and football playing nonstop on the TV.
“Hi,” I say, setting my hair spray bottle down. “Can I help you?”
He flashes a bright smile. It’s too bright. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hi,” his tone is friendly enough, but something about it feels off.
I can’t help but feel a prickle of unease crawl up the back of my neck. Maybe it’s my constant paranoia from living in a town where gossip travels faster than a thunderstorm. Yet this guy doesn’t look like someone who wandered in by mistake. “Just need a trim?” I ask, trying to sound casual when the nerves jumping beneath my skin are anything but.
He hesitates. “Actually, I was just passing through. Thought I’d check the place out.”
Check the place out? What does that even mean?
Nobody “checks out” a small-town salon like it’s a roadside attraction. I force a smile. “Well, if you want to make an appointment, I can?—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he says quickly, glancing around the shop, eyes darting over every mirror and chair before landing back on me. “Maybe some other time.” And with that, he nods politely, turns on his heel, and strolls out.
I stand there for a moment, my reflection in the mirror lookingeven more unsettled than I feel. I can’t shake the strange heaviness that settles in the pit of my stomach.
At the endof the day, I’m finishing a root touch-up and a quick trim. She’s chatting about her grandson’s T-ball game, the same story she’s told twice already, and I’m nodding, half-listening, half-focused on the rhythm of the scissors in my hand.
That’s when I notice him.
Across the street, leaning against the brick wall of the laundromat, is a man dressed entirely in black, from his rolled-up black shirt to his polished shoes. His hair is cut short, neat. The sunlight catches on the edge of his watch. It’s chunky, expensive. Out of place in a town where half the locals wear a cheap sports watch. And even from here, I can tell.
He’s looking at me.
My hand falters just slightly, the comb snagging a strand of hair. Thankfully, my client doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Could it be the same guy from earlier? I should’ve gotten a much better look at him.
Maybe I’m imagining it, I tell myself. He’s probably just waiting on someone. But my gut doesn’t buy a single word of that excuse.
I’ve lived in this town long enough to know when something, or someone, doesn’t fit. I glance away, pretending to check the back of my client’s hair in the mirror. When I look up again, he’s still there. Same stance. Same unnerving stillness.
And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he pushes off the wall, turns, and disappears down the street.
“Char?” my sweet client, Sally, asks, catching my reflection in the mirror. “You all right, honey?”
I paste on a smile. “Yeah. Just thought I saw someone I knew.”
But I don’t know him.And that’s what scares me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAR
A sizzleof fear runs through my veins, setting my nerves on fire. Without thinking, I reach into my back pocket for my phone and open my contacts. My thumb hovers for only a second before I hit the call button.
Liz answers on the second ring, but I don’t even allow her to say hello before I blurt, “Mom? Just checking to see if you were home. I’m dying for some chicken pot pie.”
Silence. Just the faint hum of static on the line before her voice slips through, soft, but edged with worry. “Where are you? Is everything okay?”
I swallow hard, forcing air into my lungs. It’s admittedly been a while since I’ve talked with her. Too long, really. I haven’t seen or even spoken to her since I returned from Sycamore Mountain. Life has a way of sweeping me up, burying me under work and responsibility. Well, when my thoughts haven’t been tangled up inhim.
