Page 21 of Don't Watch Alone
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral, like I haven’t imagined throwing a shoe at his face. My voice comes out thinner than I’d like, but I force myself to hold his gaze.
“Yes,” he says, eyes gleaming like he’s in on some inside joke. “I’m actually here for an interview. I think his name is Greg?”
The words hit harder than a punch. I feel it in my gut. My knees nearly buckle. An interview. Here. At my fucking job. I manage to nod, lips tightening as I choke back every scream rising within me.
“Of course,” I say through clenched teeth, turning away before my face betrays the panic welling up inside me. “Let me check.”
The walk to Greg’s office feels endless, like the floor is stretching out in front of me on purpose. I hear his off-key humming beforeI see him. The door’s half open, and I knock against the frame hard enough to shake it.
“Greg? The guy you’re interviewing is here.”
He looks up, powdered sugar is all over his keyboard, a half-eaten doughnut balanced on a napkin beside him. “Oh, great! Send him in.”
“Okay.” I turn before I say something I can’t take back. This is it. This is the start of a damn nightmare.
When I get back on the floor, Andy’s still hanging around, studying the store like it’s some display, and I’m the center of attention.
“Greg’s ready for you,” I tell him, pointing toward the hallway without looking him in the eye.
“Thanks,” he says, all charm, and walks off like he’s already succeeded.
I drop behind the counter, arms crossed tight across my chest, grinding my teeth. My skin itches, my clothes cling to me uncomfortably, and I want nothing more than to strip every last stitch off, then crawl into the hottest shower possible, and erase this entire morning. But instead, I stand here, rearranging flyers, wipingdown the counter again, pretending I’m not counting every second until he walks out and I can breathe again.
And then the door opens.
Greg steps out first, glowing like he just accomplished something incredibly important, and there’s Andy right behind him, smug and shining with the glow of success.
“Great… great news!” Greg says, clapping Andy on the back. “This is Andy! Meet your new teammate, Blaiz! He starts tomorrow!”
I freeze. The words knock the air straight out of me. I stare, stunned, mouth slightly open, too shocked to fake enthusiasm yet. My body goes cold, then hot, like all my blood’s trying to leave at once.
“Welcome, Andy,” I manage, the smile on my face a poor imitation of anything genuine. It hurts to hold it in place.
He winks.
That same damn wink.
The second I’m off this shift, I’m going home, throwing these clothes in the trash, and scrubbing this day off my skin. Then I’m updatingmy resume, because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’m working alongside the guy who’s been watching me like I’m his personal obsession.
No. Fucking. Way.
***
After I get home, I try calling Mary, but she doesn’t pick up. I head into the bathroom for a quick shower, planning to call her again once I’m done. My mind is racing the entire time—I can’t wash my hair fast enough. As soon as I step out, I wrap a towel around myself and rush to the phone to try her again. I call Mary again. Still nothing. It’s the third time in ten minutes, and the uneasy feeling moving up my spine is intensifying, like something cold pushing against my skin. This isn’t like her. Not Mary. She lives by her schedule, color-coded and detailed—she’s never late, never flaky, and definitely never no-shows without a word. Something isn’t adding up here.
I know we’re not best friends, not like the kind who hang out on the weekends or share juicy secrets over drinks. But we’ve been through enough rough shifts together and weird customer run-ins to have built a friendship. She wouldn’t just vanish. Not without saying something.
I grab my keys. My thoughts are focused on one goal: to go to Mary’s house and check on her. It is a short drive. Every red light feels like a surge of panic. My mind is filled with disturbing images I can’t get rid of. When I finally get to her street, my stomach just drops. Her Pinto isn’t in the driveway.
Still, I park and get out. I walk to her door, knocking once, then again, more forcefully. The heavy sound echoes back at me. Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just the distant birds chirping and wind through the trees, blowing the dead leaves around. I press my face to the window, blocking the glare with my hand, but the curtains are pulled tight. I can’t see in her house at all.
My thoughts return to Saturday night. We closed together, easy shift, steady flow. Mary had been fine. Tired, maybe, but her usual self, joking about her plans that night and how she was going to have so much fun. She clocked out before me. “See you Tuesday!” she’d called over her shoulder, giving that little wave she always did. I’d gotten everything together, counted the drawer, and headed out into the near-empty lot.
And then—Andy.
That’s when the uneasiness started, the kind that’s hard to explain because it doesn’t come with facts, just feeling. I remember digging in my purse for my keys, my hands struggling, my eyes darting around the deserted lot. It felt out of place. I felt watched. And then a shape pulled itself out of the shadows by one of the concrete pillars.
Andy.
