EvelynHarrowstandsinthe doorway of Gas N’ Go.
Vincent’s wife.
For a moment, I think I’m hallucinating.That my rage and paranoia have finally cracked something vital in my brain.
But no, she’s real and solid and standing under the sickly fluorescent glare in a cream-colored silk blouse under a striped blazer, dark slacks, and strappy heels.
Her makeup is perfect, taken directly from YouTube or TikTok tutorials.The wedding ring on her left hand catches the light—a tasteful diamond solitaire.
She doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t acknowledge my existence at all.
Just walks past the counter with measured steps, heading for the coffee station.Her heels click against the gleaming linoleum.
My heart stalls and misses several beats.Has she seen the photos?Is that why she’s here?Does she know I delivered them to her?
The geographical wrongness of it screams in my head because this gas station is nowhere near the Harrow house or the mall where she works.She would have driven past three closer stations to get here.
She came here deliberately.
She fills our largest size of cup with coffee and adds cream, but no sugar.Then she walks to the counter, still without acknowledging my existence.
I ring her up on autopilot.“Three forty-seven.”
She pays with a credit card then turns and walks toward the door with those same measured steps.Click.Click.Click.
The bell chimes her exit.
Through the window, I watch her climb into her new-looking, silver car and drive away, not toward the sheriff’s department, but away.
I stand there, alone again, trying to decode what just happened.Was it a warning?A message?Or was she just a woman who needed coffee and happened to choose this gas station?
She has to have seen the photos I dropped off for her by now.
The question is: does her visit here have anything to do with them?
***
Therestofmyshift crawls by, and I find that every new customer makes my pulse spike even though James is parked right outside.
Still, one of them could be Vincent.Could be Red Hands.Could be the universe finally calling in all my debts at once.
But it’s just the usual types who haunt convenience stores after dark.
After I finally close at midnight, I practically run to my car without so much as a glance at the private investigator parked out front.James had to leave, though he didn’t say where.He doesn’t tell me much about what he actually does all day and all night.
Even though the PI follows me, the drive home feels longer than usual.Every shadow could hide a threat.Every pair of headlights behind me could be searching for me.There’s that paranoia again, practically bleeding from my pores.
I pull into my driveway, followed closely by the PI, and the porch light flickers an erratic rhythm in welcome.
I breathe a sigh of relief, hurry to the front door, unlock it, and step inside.
The air feels different tonight, charged and watchful, and I melt into the house’s comfort.
After I close the door and lock it, my shadow daddy manifests from the darkness by the stairs—not fully solid, but present enough to be seen.A vague silhouette of a large man, its edges blurred like smoke.
“Missed you.”I drop my purse on the floor and move toward the cold, toward the dark, toward the one thing in my life that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than monstrous.
