“What were you singing earlier?”
His voice came from right behind my shoulder. Too near.
My fingers spasmed around a record sleeve, nearly bending it.
When had he moved? I’d been listening.
It was unnatural. To move without a hint of noise. Who needed that kind of silence? Soldiers. Spies.Criminals. People trained to get close before you even knew they were coming.
Heat radiated through the thin cotton of my dress.
His presence large enough to press against my spine without touching me.
Heat burned my cheeks as I tucked a curl behind my ear. I couldn’t believe he had listened to me sing. I only sang and played when no one else was here, which was most of the time. The small shop didn’t get the same amount of foot traffic it used to.
“It was ‘She Used To Be Mine’ by Sara Bareilles.”
“You have a beautiful voice,” he murmured.
He let the words hang between us, a velvet snare, waiting to see how I’d react.
I forced my jaw to unlock. “Thank you,” I managed, the words brittle.
His breath hovered just close enough to remind me he could close the distance whenever he wanted. “You sing like someone who doesn’t want to be heard…but can’t help being noticed.”
The sharp edge of the egg crate holding a stack of vinyls bit into my palm.
He didn’t know me.
He couldn’t know me.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
A pause.
The kind predators gave prey, just long enough to appreciate the way it tensed. “It will,” he said.
The three men at the entrance hadn’t budged.
A group of grungy college kids drifted up to the door, laughing, reaching for the handle?—
—until one of the men leaned in.
A few quiet words.
Whatever he said, it wiped the smiles clean off their faces.
They backed away fast. Then ran.
The door stayed shut. The street moved on.
And I was still here.
Trapped with three human barricades and a silent Russian shadow pretending to browse.
Outnumbered.
Cut off.
