The corner of Catfish’s mouth lifts. “I can live with that.”
When he pulls into the lot of the store at the edge of town, it’s busy. So close to the holidays, people are frantically stocking up on supplies.
“We should get a tree,” Catfish says. “For the ranch house.”
I glance over to the pines, wrapped in mesh netting leaned up against the side of the store. They all look a little miserable, the last ones that no one else picked. “I’m not sure there’s a lot to choose from.”
Catfish leads us right by them as we walk into the store. “Not from here. We’ll take a snowmobile and trailer out onto Atom’s land and chop one down.”
We take two carts. One for our things, one for his mom’s. With both, Catfish is chaotic. Things get tossed in. From the ingredients, I have no sense of what meals he thinks we’re going to eat.
“You know, I’m gonna throw a few solid meals in there too,” I say, grabbing a large rack of ribs and a multi-pack of chicken breasts.
“You got a problem with my grocery choices?” he says, reaching over me to grab some beef off the shelf.
“None whatsoever.” But the words are laced with laughter.
We’re just down the soda aisle when a ripple of cold air trickles down my spine. I glance behind us and see a family with two errant toddlers pushing an overfilled cart trying to make their way around a slow-moving elderly couple. The other half of the aisle has a mom with a child in the seat of the cart, loading the cart up with chips. And a group of students who are debating over their soda choices.
I double-check behind me, but there’s no one else there.
No one who looks like they might be…what? Following us?
“You okay?” Catfish asks, glancing in the direction I am.
“Someone walked over my grave.”
“What?”
“You know the saying. When you get a cold chill or your Spidey senses go off, it’s the sensation you’ll get when you’re dead and someone walks over your grave.”
Catfish studies the other end of the aisle. “You think someone’s watching us.”
He places his hand inside his cut, but I place my hand on his wrist. “I live a very paranoid life. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
His pace increases. “Let’s step this up and get out of here. I know the prospects are outside watching the truck to make sure no one steals your stuff, but let’s just get done.”
Despite our plan of action and haste, the feeling continues. “No one would attack me in a populated supermarket, would they?”
“Walk in front of me,” Catfish says, nudging me ahead. “And let’s not jinx ourselves. You’re right, it’s public. But let’s not take any chances.”
Catfish has changed, like he did in the clubhouse. Ninety percent of the time, he’s just an affable golden retriever, but in moments like this, he morphs into someone else. He stands taller, firmer, more intimidating.
His eyes scan up and down the aisles. And he steps ahead of me as we go around the corners.
We finish the shopping, but it’s clear Catfish is now on edge. And we’re almost to his truck when Catfish’s phone buzzes. He checks it and his jaw tightens.
“What?” I ask, the hairs on the back of my neck rising again.
“One of the prospects says there was a blacked-out Silverado parked across from the entrance. Been there since we went in. They didn’t see anyone get in or get out either. He was about to knock on the window when it suddenly peeled out.”
“Could be coincidence,” I offer, though I don’t believe it. Not with the way my gut is suddenly fizzing like it’s been connected to a live wire. “Did they get a look at the driver or the plate?”
“I’ll check on the ride. Look, let’s just get in and go.”
We push the carts faster through the lot, and my brain starts to try and catalogue everything. Useless things, like how the snow is crusted beneath our boots and how the wind stings, to paranoid things, like how close a van has parked next to his truck. Or how it looks as though someone sits in the car facing us.
A man leaps out of the van next to the truck, and my heart drops before I notice the club colors on the back of his leather jacket. His face is pale.
