But my skin crawls anyway.
I step back slow, and my phone buzzes so hard in my hand I nearly scream.
No Caller ID.
Again.
I stare at it. It stops, then buzzes again.
No voicemail. No text. Just that same number, like it’s got eyes.
I think about what Oaks said. If anyone starts asking you questions, you don’t answer them.
I don’t answer.
The buzzing stops.
Outside, across the street, a truck door slams.
I spin toward the sound too fast, breath catching. The truck pulls away before I can see who was inside.
Maybe this ain’t got nothing to do with him.
Maybe it’s just Hell being Hell.
But Oaks’ words echo in my head, anyway.
You don’t walk home alone.
Defiant, I go unlock the door.
Ten minutes later, the bell rings again.
A man I don’t recognize steps inside. Mid-thirties. Clean shirt. Too clean. He’s got that polite face men wear when they want you to lower your guard.
“Afternoon,” he says.
I nod. “What can I help you with?”
His eyes sweep the store slow.
He ain’t shopping.
He’s counting.
“You work here alone?” he asks casual.
My throat tightens. “No,” I lie.
He smiles.
Not friendly. Not even close.
“Owner around?”
“Back room,” I say, and I hate how my voice tries to sound normal.
He lingers too long, then nods once and leaves without buying a damn thing.
