Page 19 of Don't Watch Alone
Once I ring up the teenager, who nearly drifts out of the store, clutching the outfit like it’s made of gold, I make my way over to Janice. I lean against the counter, already smiling.
“Sooo… how’d it go?” I ask, voice low like we’re sharing secrets in a high school hallway.
She shrugs with a soft smile. “He was polite. Dinner, movie, then back to his place for a drink. He was a real gentleman.”
Something plays in her expression, though—hesitation. She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“But…” she says. “When we got to his place, I noticed something weird. He had pictures of you. In his bedroom.”
The words hit me. I feel a twisting in my stomach. “What?! What was his name?”
She blinks. “His name’s Andrew. That’s what he told me.”
My whole body goes cold.
No. No way.
I feel my jaw drop. “Andy?” I whisper.
Her eyes widen. “Yeah… he said his friends call him Andy. Do you know him?”
I stare at her, trying to process what she just said. Andy. The same Andy who’s been hovering around this store. The one who won’t stop showing up. Watching me.
My voice comes out tight. “How well did you know him before this date?”
“It was a blind date,” she says quietly.
I’m dizzy, the pieces clicking into place with a sick twist. No wonder she didn’t recognize him in the store that night—it was a blind date, so she didn’t know what he looked like. That son of a bitch wasn’t there to shop. He was there for me. He has to be the one that put that note on my door too.
What started as an annoying shift has now twisted into something far worse. A fucking nightmare.
The clock crawls toward nine, each tick wearing on my nerves and echoing through the emptiness of the mall. Janice left hours ago, her voice still clinging to the air, lingering throughmy thoughts as I replay the details she shared about her blind date. Andrew, or was it Andy? The guy with pictures. Of me. Spread across his bedroom like some fucked-up display.
“Almost there, almost there,” I mutter, the words barely more than breath in the quiet store. The mall after hours is a dead thing—every shop closed, every sound drawn out and eerie. I yank the front gates down, and the metal screams in protest, the noise unpleasant and far too loud in the quiet. The overhead lights begin to shut off one by one, each click sending another part of the store into darkness, until only the glow of exit signs and security lights.
Mary still hasn’t shown. Typical. Maybe she’s finally had enough of Greg’s bullshit, and honestly, who could blame her? The man hovers like a fucking vulture, always two seconds away from leaving another passive-aggressive sticky note or giving some half-assed lecture about folding jeans with more consideration. I try calling her. It rings three times before going to her answering machine. Maybe she’s curled upin bed right now, unaware of how the air in this place is turning thick and unsettling around me. Or maybe she just decided she had better shit to do tonight than babysit a dead mall and Greg’s enormous ego.
I hate closing alone. Always have. Every creak in the ceiling, every gust of air through the vents feels heavy, like something is lurking just out of sight. Janice’s story keeps playing in my mind. Who had pictures of me? And then the note I found this morning, taped to my fucking door: Blaiz, I have been watching you. I just want to tell you that you are beautiful. Love, your secret admirer. A joke? A threat? Both?
“Just get it done,” I snap at myself. There’s a mountain of returns waiting, begging to be rehung. I turn the corner and there it is—the naked mannequin, pale and hollow-eyed, standing there like it’s waiting for me. I’ll give it something to wear, maybe shake this creeping feeling off for a minute.
I head back out. I hover near the rack of new arrivals, fingers grazing the fabric, looking for something obnoxious enough to cut throughthe gloom. A fluorescent pink sweater catches my eye, and I yank it free. Add a yellow tank top, a faded denim skirt, and, because fuck it, a pair of striped leg warmers, striped pink and yellow.
Back in the stockroom, I dress the mannequin like a kid playing with a Barbie, hands fumbling over stiff limbs, plastic fingers catching in fabric. When it’s done, I step back. The colors are well put together. But I feel steadier somehow, standing in front of it. I reach for the handle to haul it out front.
It doesn’t turn.
I pause and try again, this time with more force.
Still nothing.
I jiggle the handle, rattle it, throw my shoulder into it. Locked. From the outside. No fucking way.
My breath catches in my throat. “Hello?” I shout. “Gus? Gus, you out there?” He’s old, mostly deaf, but he’s usually here. Doing rounds. Eating vending machine peanuts. Something.
I slam my fists against the door, each blow sending a jolt up my arms. “Gus! Open the fucking door! I’m locked in!” My voice starts cracking, panic creeping in. I hit the metal again and again, fists aching, throat burning, until the only thing I hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the frantic beating of my heart.
Nothing.
