Page 2 of Devious Madness

Not even my best friend in the world knows.

I’m safe.

I pull out my phone. It’s a throwaway phone that I got when I moved here. Once I decided it was safe enough to get a job and start earning the money I needed, I bought it so I could have at least one safe link to home.

But my messages have gone unanswered lately. Megan is the only person in the world I trust right now, and she’s not answering my texts. Having blinders on when it comes to what’s happening back home makes me uneasy. But we agreed the safest thing for me to do was to leave town.

Even after I get my heart to stop trying to claw its way up my throat, I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.

I’ve done everything I can to cover my tracks. Both of my jobs pay in cash. No one knows my real name, or at least my last name. I only contact Megan through the burner. And the apartment I’m renting over the dry cleaners didn’t do any sort of a background check. There’s been nothing to trace.

I haven’t used a debit card or credit card since I lefthome. After pulling all my money from my bank accounts, I’ve stuck to cash or prepaid debit cards.

“No one has found you. You need to chill out,” I chastise myself in the mirror.

If I have to pick up and move again, it could take a month or more before I’m able to scrape the two grand I need to send home each month.

“So relax.” I soften my voice a little.

No need to be so hard on myself. It’s been a really shitty past few months. Of course, the stress is going to get to me sometimes.

But there’s no time for panicking. The bar is filled with customers, and I have tips to collect. After another deep breath, I emerge from the bathroom to find Sandra waiting for me with a concerned frown.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m good now. I just needed a second. Been a long ass day.”

It’s not a lie. I was able to grab the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner I work at during the day. While it helped fill my pockets and feed me an extra meal today, it also made my feet throb.

“Well, it’s not even close to being done.” She scrunches up her face like she’s about to give me bad news. “Danielle just called; she’s not coming in. Mind closing with me tonight?”

My feet beg me to say no, but my purse wins out.

“Not a problem. I can do that,” I answer.

Her relief is immediate. “Thank you. This fall festival has brought more tourists in than usual.”

As we get back to work, another group has moved near the pool tables, packing the area to wiggle room only. It’s nearly one in the morning before there’s enough of a lull that I’m able to get a drink for myself.

And through the whole time, I’ve kept one eye on my orders and another for whatever is causing this eerie feeling I can’t shake.

“Last call!” Henry finally bellows over the crowd. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Sandra rolls her eyes at me. Henry yells the same worn-out line every night at last call. It’s his thing.

The juke box finally goes quiet, and the last remaining drinkers get poured into their rideshare or friend’s car. The only sounds now are the clanking of the bottles as we toss them in the dumpster out back and the chairs as we hoist them off the floor so we can push the mop through.

Even with the bar empty, aside from the limited staff, the heavy feeling of being under the watchful eye of some stranger still weighs on me. I really need a day off. That has to be the problem. I’ve worked at least one shift every day for the last two months in a row.

I’ll see if I can get Monday off. Dive Bar is closed, anyway, so if I can switch shifts at the diner, I should be able to rot in bed for a day. That should take care of this nagging paranoia.

When I reach the last table in my section, a chill runs through my body. I pause a moment to look at the front door. Charlie’s already locked it and put the crossbar in place,which means he’s done a sweep of the bar. No one but staff is in the building.

“This is just getting out of hand,” I mutter to myself as I swipe the folded-up dollar bills from the table to pocket my tip. A piece of crumpled white paper falls from the bundle.

My eyes land on it as though it’s a rattlesnake just fell on the table and not some random piece of scrap paper.

I leave it at first, shoving my tip into my apron pocket and snatching up the half empty bottle of beer. Tempting as it is to just crumple it up and throw it away, that dark cloud forms over me again.

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