“Somebody’s got to,” I said, and she laughed.
I watched her walk to her car and waited until she pulled out of the parking spot before I drove away. Then I locked the front door, flipped the light to CLOSED, and turned back to the empty shop.
The silence settled around me like a second skin.
I moved through the space methodically—checking display cases, making sure everything was secure, and counting the register. The routine was calming. Predictable. I liked predictable.
I was in the back room, locking the safe, when I heard the front door chime.
I froze.
I’d locked that door. I knew I’d locked it.
I straightened slowly, listening. Footsteps. Two sets. Heavy. Male. Moving through the shop floor with the kind of carelessness that came from thinking you were alone.
A smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.
I walked back toward the front, my footsteps silent on the polished floor. When I reached the doorway, I stopped and watched.
Two men. Early twenties, maybe. One tall and skinny with a face full of acne scars. The other shorter, stockier, wearing a shirt two sizes too big. They were at the display case near the window, the tall one already smashing the glass with the butt of a gun.
The sound was loud. Sharp. Glass raining onto the floor like diamonds.
I leaned against the doorframe and waited.
The stocky one looked up first. Saw me. His eyes went wide for half a second before he raised his gun—a cheap 9mm that probably jammed every third shot.
“The fuck you still doing here?” he said, his voice cracking on the last word.
I didn’t answer. Just looked at him. Then at his partner. Then back at him.
The tall one turned, gun in hand, and pointed it at my chest. “You deaf, old man? Get on the fucking floor.”
Old man.
I almost laughed.
“You know where you are?”
They looked at each other. Confused.
“Magazine Street,” the stocky one said. “Jewelry shop. Now get on the fucking floor before I put you there.”
I tilted my head. “You knowwhoseshop this is?”
The tall one’s finger twitched on the trigger. “I don’t give a fuck whose shop it is. You got ten seconds to get down or I’m putting a bullet in your?—”
I moved.
Fast.
Faster than either of them expected.
I closed the distance between us in three steps, grabbed the tall one’s wrist, and twisted. The gun went off—loud, deafening in the enclosed space—but the bullet went wide, shattering another display case. I snapped his wrist with a sharp jerk, felt the bones crack under my grip, and he screamed.
The stocky one raised his gun, but I was already moving. I drove my elbow into the tall one’s throat, crushing his windpipe, and used his body as a shield. The stocky one hesitated—just fora second, just long enough—and I shoved the tall one forward into him.
They went down in a tangle of limbs and panic.
