Page 3 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

I continue to the grocery store, soaking in the slower vibe I’ve missed. There are no traffic lights on the quaint main street. No honking horns and screeching brakes, like in densely packed Houston—our witness protection home away from home.

I walk into Duke’s Market and grab a cart, less frazzled but still tense. The size of this town means a Maggie sighting can happen at any moment.

Two steps into the produce section, I finally relax. My younger brother and his better half are perusing the fruit, providing me with optimal distraction material.

“Delilah,” I say, leaning my elbows onto my shopping cart, “I thought you told me you were finally ditching E. Something about him snoring loud enough to damage your eardrums.”

E stares at me blandly. “What are you, five?”

I’m thirty, soon to be thirty-one in a couple of months. Any continued immaturity is from living in a witness-protection bubble for ten years, only hanging out with my idiot brothers. “I’ve shared a room with you. I’m well acquainted with the foghorn that is your nose.”

“That’s when I’m sick, asshole. But feel free to tell Delilah about the time you walked around downtown Houston for an hour and got paranoid because everyone was staring at you.”

I glare at him. He knows I spent that hour terrified, sure our pictures and real names had gotten out and everyone knew the Becerra cartel wanted us dead, and it was only a matter of time before my fingers would be severed one by one. I ran around like a madman at home, yelling at my family to pack up, tossing my clothes willy-nilly, furious that they were laughing at me. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had cat whiskers drawn on my face.

A couple of hours prior, E and I had gone to a park, where he’d sketched and I’d read until I’d fallen asleep on the grass. I woke up alone, unaware the asshat had doodled on my face.

I mouth Fuck off to E and push my cart toward the lettuce.

Delilah fondles a couple of mangoes, then puts one in their cart. “How’s your rental? You don’t mind being out of town?”

“The place is small but nice, and I like the quiet.” Love it, actually. The hominess. The peace and simplicity. Unfortunately, I only rent the property, and paying Mrs. Jackson has been a tad challenging. “The acreage is a bonus too. Means I can booby-trap it when you guys come and visit.”

E punches my arm. “We should set up trip wires with sound grenades, then invite Desmond over.”

“Oh yeah.” We high-five and grin like ten-year-olds who’ve filled our first water balloons. Desmond may be my new business partner, but nothing beats terrorizing our grouchy brother.

Delilah shakes her head. “I never know if I should encourage you two or give you time-outs.”

I gesture to the apple she’s feeling up. “I’m not the one giving hand jobs to fruit.”

She purses her lips, then stands taller, her curly hair bouncing with the move. “How are you managing with your shopping since you’ve moved to Windfall?”

I narrow my eyes. It’s not like Delilah to let my taunting jokes go. She’s the sister I never had, dishing out jabs as fast as they come in. “I haven’t starved yet,” I say guardedly.

“I mean clothes shopping,” she clarifies. Her nostrils flare and blue eyes sparkle, while the rest of her is steel-rod stiff, like she’s trying not to laugh. “With no hipster stores here, figured shopping’s hard for you.”

And there we have it. “For the ten millionth time, I am not a hipster.”

E steals a grape from the bundle in their cart and pops it into his mouth. “Tell that to your skinny jeans and ironic T-shirt.”

My shirt does say Ironic on it, but I growl under my breath. The only reason my family pesters me with hipster jokes is because I react. I know it. Can’t seem to control my annoyance. I mean, half the world wears jeans and printed T-shirts, and beards are everywhere these days. Yet my family loves to get under my skin.

In high school, my brothers mocked me for dressing like a hippie. Then there was my rocker phase, with my eyeliner and collection of concert T-shirts. They razzed me endlessly when I got into country music and bought cowboy boots, as if people aren’t allowed to change interests and styles as they grow up.

“Last I checked,” I say, “there isn’t a—”

“Maggie Edelstein,” E says.

My heart launches into my throat.

My back is to the entrance, so I have no clue if E is yanking my chain or if Maggie is actually here. While none of my family knows what happened between Maggie and me eleven years ago, they know her name sends me into panic mode.

Unsure if E’s tormenting me for his twisted amusement or not, I do the only reasonable thing. I drop into a crouch and hide behind the apple display.

Delilah covers her mouth with her hand, doing a crap job of hiding that she’s cracking up. E full-on snorts. Yep, the mongrel’s playing with me.

I start standing, when I hear, “Fancy meeting you two here.”