Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
He’s just as handsome as I remember. Men age well, not that thirty-four is old. However, most people put on a little weight as they age, but Price’s cheeks are a little more hollow, and his pants hang looser than I remember. He’s always had wavy brown hair, but it’s a little longer, and his velvet brown eyes don’t hold as much glimmer. His aura makes me uneasy.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything,” I say to the gentleman entering the store in a red baseball hat and a black zip-up hoodie. My gaze follows the clinking sound of the dog with jingly tags behind him—an adorable white Fox Terrier with a black patch on its back, a tan mask, and button ears.
The man scratches his scruffy jaw and nods, offering me the quickest of glances before heading toward the back of the store with the dog right behind him.
Every time the door has chimed today, I’ve secretly hoped for Price. I glance at my watch. The store closes in ten minutes. The guy didn’t grab a cart or basket, so he shouldn’t be here long. While I wipe down the counter and finish sweeping the floor in front of the bulk bins, the man in the red hat strolls down each aisle with his hands in his jacket pockets, occasionally stealing a glance in my direction with his blue eyes that are almost too blue to trust and full lips pressed into a hard line.
Why does he keep looking at me?
And why does it look like there’s something in his pocket? A gun. It has to be a gun, but it’s not in a holster.
My spine stiffens, and my heart beats so fast it pulses in my ears. This makes no sense. Someone doesn’t rob a store with their dog. Do they?
There are cameras, but no one is monitoring them; no one would save me.
“Um …” I clear my throat. “We’re closing soon. Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you find?” My voice trembles as I make my way behind the counter again—the broom clanks when my shaky hand leans it against the door to the back room.
Keeping his head bowed, he steps up to the counter, grabs random items within arm’s length of the register, and tosses them in front of me.
“Are you paying with a credit card? We only accept credit cards. There is no cash in the store.”
Nothing for you to rob.
He slowly lifts his head, giving me my first good look at him. Beneath the dark blond scruff on his face, he has a strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips, and distrusting cobalt eyes. A half-inch scar slants toward his temple just above his left eyebrow. It’s flat and a shade lighter than the rest of his skin, like it’s been there for years.
I mentally note it, along with his curled, dirty blond hair peeking out in all directions from his hat. If I live to talk to the cops, I’ll tell them he’s over six foot, maybe six-two or six-three. Athletic build with broad shoulders. Robust hands with thick knuckles. He’d easily be able to strangle me with just one of them.
“You take cash,” he says matter-of-factly.
Chills claim my skin like a pond’s surface, surrendering to winter. And I feel just as frozen in place. Still, who brings their dog to a robbery? Or is this a homicide in the making?
He’s calling my bluff. He and his dog have sniffed out my lie. I want to scream, but I’m too terrified to scream. I’ve had this nightmare, the one where the fear is so great that it has me in a choke hold, so when I open my mouth to cry for help, nothing comes out.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper before pressing my trembling lips together.
I would give anything for someone to walk through the door. There have been so many nights when someone has rushed into the store, grateful they caught me before I locked the door because they needed something.
Not tonight.
He narrows his eyes briefly before his pinched brows release and spring up his forehead. He holds up his hands as if I’m the one who might harm him. “Scottie, I’m not going to hurt you.”
I yank open the drawer below the register and pull out a pair of scissors before taking several steps backward. “How do you know my name?”
“I’m Koen.”
I shake my head. I didn’t ask his name.
“Herb Sikes’s grandson.”
I hear him, but it still takes a few seconds for everything to register. “W-what are you doing here?” I lower the scissors but keep a firm grip on them.
Killers have families and grandfathers who probably adore them because they don’t know they’re killers. Herb said Koen’s the silent type.
Just like a killer.
Most killers have above-average IQs. And cute dogs. Unsuspecting little accomplices.