***
An hour later, I realized I had nothing to eat except a jar of pickles, questionable leftover Chinese food that might qualify as a science experiment, and half a sleeve of stale crackers.
My fridge was a graveyard of good intentions and expired yogurt. I opened the door and stared at the contents like theymight magically transform into a meal if I believed hard enough. They did not.
I considered just not eating. Spite and caffeine had sustained me this long. I was basically running on fumes and stubbornness at this point. Adding food to the mix might throw off the delicate balance.
But my stomach growled loud enough to echo off Gerald the ceiling stain, so grocery store it was.
I grabbed my jacket, shoved my feet back into my shoes, and headed out into the night air. The tattoo shop was still open downstairs, the buzz of machines audible through the floor. I waved at Marco through the window as I passed. He was working on someone’s back piece, a massive dragon that wrapped around their shoulder blades. He nodded in acknowledgment without looking up.
The grocery store was three blocks away, a small family-owned place that had somehow survived the arrival of the big chains by sheer force of stubbornness. Mrs. Kim had owned it for forty years. She knew everyone’s name, everyone’s business, and everyone’s preferred brand of cereal. She also judged your purchases silently but thoroughly. I once bought three pints of ice cream and a box of wine, and she looked at me like she could see directly into my sad, single soul.
Tonight I grabbed the essentials: bread, eggs, cheese, a frozen pizza, and a pint of ice cream I absolutely didn’t need but absolutely deserved. Mrs. Kim raised an eyebrow at the ice cream but said nothing. Small mercies.
The cashier was a bored teenager who didn’t make eye contact, which was my favorite kind of human interaction. No small talk, no questions, justbeep, beep, beep, here’s your total, goodbye.
Perfect.
Lysmont at night was quiet. The streets emptied out after dark, people retreating to their homes like the town had a curfew nobody told me about. I’d walked this route approximately four hundred times. I knew every crack in the sidewalk, every flickering streetlight, every corner where the neighborhood cats congregated to judge passersby with their unblinking eyes.
I was three blocks from home when I felt it.
Eyes on me.
The prickle started at the back of my neck. Someone was watching me.
I kept walking, but my pace quickened. I shifted my grocery bags to one arm, freeing the other to dig for my keys. The weight of the ice cream suddenly felt like a liability. Could you use a pint of mint chocolate chip as a weapon? Probably not effectively. Maybe if I threw it really hard, aimed for the face, got lucky. Fuck.
I was going to die holding a pint of ice cream. That was going to be in my obituary. “Riley Hawkins, age 28, struck down in her prime while carrying frozen dairy products. She is survived by her houseplants, most of which she also killed.”
I glanced over my shoulder, trying to be subtle…
Nothing. The sidewalk was empty, and there was only a cat on a fence, staring at me with the quiet judgment only felines could muster.
Fine. I was being paranoid. Damien’s threat was echoing in my head, making me see danger in shadows.
I turned the corner onto my street and heard footsteps behind me.
Okay. That wasn’t paranoia. That was definitely footsteps. Heavy ones, moving faster than a casual stroll, the rhythm wrong for someone just walking home. Too steady for a jogger, too deliberate for a coincidence.
My heart rate spiked. My apartment was half a block away, and the tattoo shop would still be open. Dom and Marco and Vinnie would be there, closing up for the night, and they’d help me.
The footsteps were getting closer. I abandoned all pretense and ran.
My grocery bags swung wildly. I heard the eggs crack inside the bag, yolk spreading everywhere, and I mentally said goodbye to my breakfast plans. The ice cream was probably getting destroyed too. RIP mint chocolate chip. You deserved better.
I sprinted the last hundred feet, yanked open the door to Ink & Iron, and practically threw myself inside.
The bell above the entrance jangled violently. Three massive men looked up from what appeared to be a very serious game of poker.
Dom, six-foot-four with a shaved head and more tattoos than visible skin, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Marco, slightly shorter with a beard that could house a family of birds, was already standing and reaching for what was definitely not a tattoo gun behind the counter. I didn’t ask what it was. I didn’t want to know.
Vinnie, the youngest with puppy-dog eyes that didn’t match his intimidating sleeve tattoos, looked genuinely alarmed. “Riley? What happened?”
“Someone...” I gasped, chest heaving, grocery bags dangling pathetically from my arms. “Someone was following me. Footsteps. Getting closer.”
