“Rough shift?”
“Very.”
He smiles. It’s a perfectly good smile, and that’s the frustrating thing about Greg. On paper, by every measure that should matter, the man checks every box. Nice jaw, solid build, easy on the eyes. And yet, every conversation with him generates in me a mild but unshakeable sensation of tedium, as though someone has set my internal frequency to a channel he can’t reach.
I’ve been handling my life solo for three years now, and the bar for changing that is a lot higher than good bone structure and an inability to take a hint.
“A few of us are heading to Keegan’s,” he says. “Post-shift drinks. You should come.”
“I’m spent, Greg.”
“One drink?—”
“Maybe next time.” I give him a smile that meansthis conversation is over, and he reads it — mostly. He nods, sayssure, yeah, and peels off toward the east side of the lot.
I turn back to my bag.
My keys are not in it.
I unzip the front pocket. The side pocket. The main compartment. I hold the bag open under the parking lot lamp and peer directly into its contents. No keys. The keychain is not easily overlooked. It has blue rhinestone initials,ML, which Ellie informed me for six consecutive months were irredeemably tacky and which I retained on the grounds that I enjoyed them and it was my keychain.
I let out a slow breath.
I turn back toward the building. They’re in theresomewhere — sitting on a counter or buried in my locker — and I’m going to have to drag my aching body back inside to find them, which is fine. Totally fine. I’m exhausted, and my feet have filed a formal complaint, and every molecule in my body is begging me to lie down, but it’s fine.
I take three steps between the rows of cars and freeze when I hear something.
Not loud. Somewhere between a footstep and a shift of weight — the kind of sound a body makes when it settles into a position it’s been holding for a while.
The back of my neck lights up like a warning flare.
I go completely still.
“Hello?” My voice comes out steadier than the rest of me feels. “Anyone there?”
Nothing.
I turn slowly, scanning the gaps between cars, the shadows pooling between them, the dark edges where the overhead lights give up trying. Nothing moves. No one appears. But the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets worse, pressing against my skin like a shift in air pressure, and I know with a certainty that tightens my throat:This is nothing like Landon’s people.
His surveillance was identifiable — a sedan parked too long, a figure loitering outside the coffee shop across the street. Amateur hour, honestly. This is something else entirely. This presence has no edges I can find, no source I can point to, and yet, it doesn’t feel random. It feels focused. Concentrated. Like someone has taken all the attention in this parking lot and aimed it at a single point.
Me.
I make myself look toward where the sound came from.
Near my car.
On the asphalt beside the driver’s door, catching the fluorescent light, is something blue. My keychain.
I stare at it.
You dropped them.That’s the explanation. I was distracted when Greg popped up, the keys were in my hand, they slipped and I didn’t notice because I was busy being politely dismissive. That’s what happened. That is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent what happened.
I walk over, crouch down, and pick them up.
They’re warm.
I close my fist around them and walk to my car without looking back. I get in. Lock the doors. Sit there for a heavy moment, staring at my own knuckles wrapped around a keychain that someone else touched, and then I make myself start the engine.
