Page 9 of Executing Malice
“There is something wrong with you,” I tell him, meaning it.
“Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea. Now, go before one of the lawn gnomes take a shot at my kneecaps and you become collateral damage.”
Exasperated, I roll my eyes, but don’t argue. I pivot on my feet, and this time, I look both ways before sprinting back towards the bank.
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I’m not annoyed.
That’s a satisfaction I will not give that asshole. I’m not going to let him creep under my skin and...
“Fuck!”
A crimson bead bubbles up from the puncture in my finger where I injected a staple through the skin.
How? Fuck if I know, but I pop the digit into my mouth and glower at the window where the day has begun to slip into autumn dusk.
He’s to blame.
I was startled by what I thought was the growl of a machine. Otherwise, I was doing fine completing the nightly closing.
I shove the deposit slips into the basket with a little more force than is necessary and stuff the whole thing under the counter to finish up in the morning.
I’m not one to leave things for the next day. I’ll stay the extra twenty minutes to make sure everything is put in their rightful places — even if I won’t get paid for it. But I’ve been frazzled and scatterbrained all afternoon and I can’t trust myself to do a proper job.
So, I close up. Toss my purse straps over my shoulder and leave the bank.
The low hum of a beast in the brush ripples through the settling silence. We’re usually the last to close so the predatory growl scuttles up my spine. It takes every ounce of control not to glance back over my shoulder as I fumble to get the key into the lock. I miss a few times but get the tumblers to clack into place.
I continue to pretend like I don’t see the broad hulk of a shadow crouched just out of sight from the corner of my eye. He’s hard to miss. He’s the only other person parked along the curb.
I briefly wonder if I’d be more worried if he’d been in a car. Granted, there are still enough people on the sidewalks that I don’t think he’d get the chance to kidnap me, but I still make sure I call out to Maisie Baker as she snaps the locks on the bakery several doors down.
“See you tomorrow, Maisie!”
Wide, brown eyes lift and find me. She smiles while stuffing her keys into her bag.
“See you tomorrow.”
I reach my car and get in behind the wheel.
Only when I’m seated and have the doors locked do I dare a peek up into my rearview mirror, and my heart catches in my chest.
I can’t see his face, but I know his eyes are locked on mine. The powerful build of all those muscles strain with theforward brace of his body. His gloved hands are twisted around the handlebars like a racer ready for the gunshot.
I put my car into drive and clumsily pull out of my spot. I wait to hear the revving of his engine, the squeal of his tires, but there is nothing as I turn off Silver Pines Road to Dunlop Crest.
He doesn’t follow me through the winding streets. He never does. I don’t know where he goes or if he even leaves at all. Maybe Viola is right, and he sleeps there. Doubtful. He’s never there when I arrive in the morning.
It doesn’t matter.
He’s not my problem.
Once I get home, I’m taking off my bra, kicking off my shoes and grabbing the ice cream from the freezer. In that order. Then, I’m going to park my butt in front of the TV and binge the rest ofBridgeton.
It’s a beautiful plan. I’m practically dancing in my seat as I take the final bend, dip off the main roads and down Wellington Drive. Buildings bleed into wilderness. The scent of cinnamon gives way to pine and earth. I roll down my window and breathe in the crisp evening air.
