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"Anythingelse for you?" she asked the customer before her, tucking a loose strandof chestnut hair behind her ear. But her bright facade flickered as her gazedrifted to a figure nestled in the shadows of a corner booth.
He was an oddityamidst the chatter and laughter – a man shrouded in an overcoat despite thespring warmth, his features obscured by the brim of a fedora drawn low. A chillskittered down Jennifer's spine as she met his gaze, his eyes dark pools thatseemed to swallow the light around him. He didn't speak, only nodded once, hisattention fixed on her with unsettling intensity.
"Surething," she chirped automatically, turning away to attend to anothertable, though the weight of the man's stare lingered like an unwelcome touch.She dared not look back, focusing instead on the minutiae of her tasks: wipingdown tables, refilling condiments, offering desserts with a cheerfulness she nolonger felt.
Jennifer movedthrough the motions, her hands steady but her mind racing. It wasn't unusualfor the café to attract all sorts – tourists, business people, students – butthere was something about this man that set every nerve on edge. Was it the wayhe sat alone, untouched coffee cooling before him, or the manner in which heseemed to see beyond the surface, as if peering into secrets she'd nevervoiced?
The clock'sminute hand ticked forward, each movement a step toward escape. She cleared herthroat, dispelling the unease that threatened to choke her. "Just gottamake it through the next half hour," she whispered to herself, pouringanother round of coffee with a steadier hand.
"Can I getyou anything else?" she asked the surrounding customers, avoiding thecorner that housed her silent observer. Her question was met with smiles andshakes of heads, the din of the café a comforting barrier against the silenceemanating from the corner booth.
"Almosttime," she reassured herself, allowing the routine to anchor her. Theapron tied at her waist felt like a shield, the order pad in her hand atalisman against the day's strangeness. She'd worked here long enough to handledifficult customers and brush off odd encounters, but today tested her resolve.
"Last thirtyminutes," she mused, glancing at the clock once more. The hands pointed tofreedom, and the warmth of the afternoon sun beckoned. With one last sweep ofthe floor and a check on the dwindling crowd, Jennifer steeled herself for thefinal stretch of her shift, ready to put distance between her and the enigmaticstranger who had turned an ordinary workday into a tableau of quiet disquiet.
Jennifer's gazeflickered toward the aged clock once more, its hands now granting her the sweetreprieve she'd been counting down to. With a soft chime, it declared the end ofher shift, the sound harmonizing with a symphony of clinking dishes and muffledfarewells. The cafe gradually emptied, patrons sauntering out into the Texasheat, leaving behind the aroma of spent coffee grounds and pastry crumbs.
She methodicallystripped away her apron, the fabric carrying the day's toil in its woventhreads. As she folded it neatly beside the register, Jennifer allowed herselfa surreptitious glance to the corner booth that had harbored her silentwatcher. It was empty. The man had vanished as quietly as he had sat, hisdeparture unnoticed in the ebb and flow of the bustling café. A breath shehadn't realized she'd been holding escaped her, and for the first time sincethe unsettling encounter, her shoulders eased away from her ears.
"See youtomorrow, Jen," called Marco, the barista with the ever-present smile, ashe swiped down the espresso machine.
"Surething," she replied, her voice steadier than it had been all afternoon."Take care."
"Goodriddance to bad rubbish, right?" quipped Tina, who was tallying up her owntips at a nearby table. Jennifer simply nodded, too relieved to muster morewords.
She slung her bagover her shoulder, not bothering to look back as she pushed through the cafédoors. The outside world greeted her with a warm embrace, the sun high andunyielding against the clear blue sky. The familiar streets of Dallas unfoldedbefore her as she made her way home, each step shedding the unease of theearlier hours.
The sidewalkswere alive with the hum of city life; commuters eager to return to their homes,children laughing as they darted around street corners, vendors announcingtheir wares with practiced allure. Jennifer wove through the crowd withpracticed ease, the rhythm of her footsteps a soothing cadence that quickenedwith the promise of solitude.
Her apartmentbuilding came into view, its red brick facade kissed by the golden hour light,windows reflecting the day's dying rays. It was an old structure, but sturdy, atestament to the character of her neighborhood, where history brushed elbowswith modernity. Jennifer felt a fondness for the sight, the familiarity of theentranceway, the slightly crooked number above the door—all signposts that shewas almost there, almost safe.
She checked herwatch, noting how the minutes had hastened her journey. Soon, she would bewithin the confines of her own four walls, the day's shadow cast off like acoat too heavy for the season. The thought brought a small, genuine smile toher lips as she crossed the final stretch, her keys already jingling inanticipation of refuge.
Jennifer's pulsequickened as the silhouette of the historic monument loomed ahead, its bronzefigure casting long shadows across the sidewalk. It was a relic from an eralong past, standing guard over the city's tales and secrets. As she approached,her gaze inadvertently caught a flicker of movement behind her—a shadowdetaching itself from the rest. Her heart hitched; it was him, the man from thecafé with eyes that clung too tightly.
She swallowed thesudden lump in her throat and quickened her step, stealing a glance over hershoulder. The figure was distant but decidedly human, and male—his movementsdeliberate, directed. Jennifer’s skin prickled with unease, the earlierencounter at the café bleeding into the present moment like unwelcome déjà vu.
But as shecontinued to walk, the distance between them slowly closed, and the details ofthe figure became clearer. It wasn't him. This man was taller, broader, hisgait entirely different. Relief flushed through Jennifer, warm and liberating.It was just another pedestrian, likely heading home like she was. She exhaled,allowing her shoulders to relax, and turned her attention back to the pathbefore her.
Her respite wasshort-lived. The stranger's pace didn't slacken with the setting sun; instead,it grew more pronounced, more determined. Jennifer could hear the echo offootsteps growing louder against the concrete, a drumming that seemed to keeptime with her racing heart. She considered picking up her pace, breaking into arun, but fear rooted her to the spot, her hands suddenly clammy around thestrap of her bag.
Before she couldmuster the courage to flee or confront, the stranger was upon her. There was notime to scream, no moment to react. Strong hands gripped her from behind, oneclamping over her mouth while the other wrenched her arm behind her back, immobilizingher. Panic surged, a tidal wave crashing through her senses. She struggled, hermind frantic with escape plans, but found herself ensnared by strength that farexceeded her own.
The worldnarrowed to the struggle, to the hot breath against her ear and the iron clampof fingers that threatened to swallow her cries. Her attacker said nothing, hissilence more terrifying than any spoken threat. And as the last light of dayreceded, Jennifer Clarke found herself face-to-face with an unknown horror, thesafety of her home just out of reach.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Morgan pressedthe buzzer beside the tarnished brass nameplate that read "Harris"and waited, the cool air of the city prickling at her ink-covered arms. Shealways felt like an outsider in these clean-cut buildings, a wolf in a land ofsheep. The door clicked open with a buzz, and she ascended the narrow stairwellto apartment 3C, each step echoing a steady beat like a metronome countingdown.
Chad Harris,Emily Harris's brother, opened the door before she could knock—a tall figuresilhouetted against the dim light of the apartment. His face was drawn, eyeshollowed by the kind of loss that carves deep into a person's soul, and Morganknew that look all too well.
"AgentCross," Chad's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weightof his shattered world. "Please, come in."
She stepped intothe apartment, taking in the minimalist decor, the sparseness that hinted attwo lives once entangled, now untethered. Chad closed the door with a softclick and motioned toward the couch. There were no formalities, no offer of adrink or pleasantries to ease into the conversation. Instead, they sat oppositeeach other, two survivors of their own tragedies.
"I'm sorryto have to do this, Mr. Harris," Morgan began, her voice firm yetempathetic. "But I need to know everything about Emily—anything that mighthelp us find who did this."
"Emily..."Chad's voice cracked, and he looked away, lost for a moment in a sea ofmemories. "After our parents died, it was just us. We promised to look outfor each other." He laughed, but it was devoid of humor. "And now,here we are."
