I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “Whatever. How long do you think you’ll be?”
There’s a beat of silence. “At least another hour and a half by the time I grab the paint and drive back. Maybe even two. What’s up?”
I tap my fingers against the counter, frowning as I debate just how much to tell him. But he’ll just worry if I let him know, and it’s only—I check the clock—sixty minutes until closing time. “Nothing. I was just wondering if you wanted to grab a beer or something when I shut up for the day.”
“Sounds good to me, but only if you help me paint another wall.” I groan loudly, and he laughs. “Or you can keep me company while I paint.”
“You’ve got a deal,” I agree eagerly. “I’ll sit and drink beer, and watch you paint.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“Okay, see you soon, bye!” I hang up before he can argue anymore, chuckling to myself. Deciding it is better to be safethan sorry, I quickly flick a message to Maryann, hoping that either she or Stacey might be able to come down until we close. I set my phone down under the register, deciding I’ll call in fifteen minutes if she hasn’t messaged back.
The next hour passes by in a blur of customers—two brides asking about summer wedding dates, a pair of teens ordering matching corsages and boutonnieres for the upcoming prom, and four people browsing for something fresh to brighten their homes for spring.
It was an unexpected rush, and by the time I flip the sign toClosedand lock the door, a wave of fatigue washes over me. I turn the main locks and head into the break room, collapsing into a chair and rubbing my temple where pain throbs.
Hope I haven’t caught whatever Bridget has.
I don’t mind being busy, especially when it means I don’t have to think about Braxton or Nolan pushing me to talk to him. I know that I need to, and that leaving this situation unresolved isn’t healthy for anyone…but clearly, my coping strategies have been to duck and run for long enough that they’re ingrained now.
Deciding to message Braxton right here and now—just so I don’t give myself any wriggle room to back out of it—I fish inside my apron pocket for my phone and come up empty. Confusion fills me until I remember leaving it under the counter earlier, and I stand with a grimace, my feet aching.
I’m heading toward the door when the light above me flickers once and then dies completely. I freeze midstep. There’s no natural light in the break room, and the darkness is suffocating. It’s probably my brain playing tricks on me, but the air feels heavier, thicker as I drag it into my lungs.
The weather was fine last time I looked, barely a cloudoverhead, so it can’t be a storm that’s killed the power. Maybe an accident or?—
Crash.
An explosion of sound ricochets through the building, followed by a smattering of glass pinging against concrete flooring. It is too close to have come from out front, but too loud to be anything but the window in the workshop.
Fueled by instinct and adrenaline, I tiptoe to the door—my only exit from the room. I pause, one hand on the doorknob, holding my breath, trying to hear what’s going on. There’s nothing, and yet something warns me against opening the door.
Maybe it was just a fluke accident?
No one is out there, and my brain is just playing tricks?—
The thought doesn’t finish before there’s a loud thump. I jump backward, barely missing being hit by the door as it’s forcefully shoved open. A gasp leaves me as a shadowy figure fills the space, just enough light pouring in from the front room for me to see a dark hoodie pulled over their head and a black…maskover their face.
Terror washes over me as a masculine voice growls, “You should have left when you had the chance.” There’s a thread of annoyance and, before I can react, his arm moves, a whoosh sounding before something heavy slams into my temple.
I stumble back with a cry as my hands come up to protect myself from more hits.
“Where’s the money?” he demands, and I blink, trying to clear the blurriness from my eyes as he storms toward me. Without thinking, I move, dodging around the table and putting it between us, wincing when I kick one of the legs.
“There’s no money,” I cry desperately, feeling a wet trickle run down the side of my face. I don’t bother brushing it away, never taking my eyes off him, even whenmy vision seems to throb in time with my pulse. My stomach swoops with nausea, but I clench my jaw, forcing out, “It’s already gone to the bank.”
“Liar!” he barks viciously, taking another step closer, each of us on either side of the table. “I know you’re on your own, and I know you never fucking left. Where’s the money?!”
I swallow roughly. “The register?—”
He scoffs rudely. “There’s fuck all in there, and you know it. Where’s the rest of it?”
I shake my head wildly, stifling a wince at the pain the movement causes. “We’re a florist. We don’t make that much, and people don’t use cash?—”
A glint of something flashes in the dim light as he raises a hand, and a whimper escapes as I realize he’s brandishing a big fucking knife.
“I don’t have time for this, bitch.”
