“I won’t,” I promise. I look at the painting again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. Nothing that I haven’t faced before. We’ll get through this together.”
When I finish work seven hours later, a small piece of me wonders what all the fuss was about. I took a nice family from Atlanta out on the airboat. They were here to celebrate their grandmother’s eightieth birthday and, apparently, going on an airboat was one of her bucket list items.
The prospects hadn’t been happy about me heading out, but I tipped my chin in the direction of the little kids in bucket hats and the obviously loving parents and grandma, who was wearing a smile so big, I thought her jawbone might crack, and asked them just how much trouble they thought I’d be in.
Leo closed up the shop, and two of the prospects stayed behind to look after my business.
Kip, short for Kipling, a name he told me he hates, and Derren, a transplant from Wisconsin, got to come with me to the grocery store.
“You can wait out here,” I say once we get there.
Kip shakes his head. “Prez said to stay with you.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course, he did. Fine. Just don’t make it weird. Try to blend in or something.”
Although, that would be hard. Kip is a wall of solid muscle, and Derren must be over six and a half feet. Both of them wearing Outlaws cuts that declare them prospects.
The store is quiet. A couple of old men linger near the newspapers, talking about inconsequential things. Someone’s kid is having a meltdown in the cereal aisle, and I wonder what kind of father Knox is going to be. I wonder if he’ll find a reserve of patience. If he’ll be playful with them.
Everything about the grocery store is normal, no matter how hard I scan for danger. Knox has got me wound up tighter than I need to be. And it’s not that I’m some kind of Pollyanna who thinks everything is fine.
I know it’s not.
But I don’t need to live my life one heartbeat away from a panic attack.
“You know what,” I say to Kip, handing him a basket, “make yourself useful. Carrots, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and romaine. Derren, you’re on apples, oranges, strawberries, and bananas. Sooner we’re done, sooner we’re on our way to Knox. I’ll go get the meat and dairy stuff.”
They look at me confused, for a hot second, but then head toward the produce department while I grab a shopping cart.
In the meat department, I reach for a large pack of chicken breasts and then think about Knox. “He’s bound to be a red meat guy,” I mutter to myself.
I throw in steak and ribs too. I have no idea what he’s up against now, but the least I can do to support him is make sure we have good meals. I throw in some ground beef and make a mental note to grab beans for a chili.
Then, I head to the dairy, where I throw in Greek yogurt, cottage cheese, a large block of sharp cheddar. The milk coolers are half-empty; a few cartons of milk pushed forward on the roller-racking from the rear to make it look stocked.
I can see more farther back on the rack, just out of reach. I peer through the shelves to see if I can spot anyone back there who could give it a nudge because it would take two seconds if anyone actually worked here.
I glance around. No staff. No one paying attention.
Fine. I see the door that leads to the stockroom. It’s slightly ajar.
“Hello?” I call as I push it open.
No one answers me. It’s cool back here. The polished edge of the store disappears, replaced with gray concrete floor, stacked boxes, and the low mechanical hum of the refrigeration units.
It smells different too. Slightly…stale with the dust of cardboard in the air.
I find the back of the dairy rack and give the box of milk I need a shove. But while I’m there, and being a store owner myself, I can’t help but be helpful. Each box I shove rumbles noisily down the roller racking. There’s something quite satisfying about it.
And just as I’m done with the last container, a hand comes down over my mouth from behind, hard and fast enough to snap my head back. The smell of him hits me, first. Cigarette smoke and sweat. And then, there is the pressure of the body behind me. He’s not as solid as Knox is, but his other arm is wrapped tightly around my middle.
My heart jolts wildly as I jerk against him. I kick and try to get my feet beneath me, flailing my hands and elbows as I try to make contact.
“Easy, Maren,” he says. “Don’t want to hurt you.”
Whoever this is, knows my name.
