Page 83 of Where Roads Lead

I didn’t know where the story was going anymore, but that was half the fun of it.

By the time I finished my morning writing sprint, my hands were covered with pen ink and my stomach was grumbling loud enough to shake the precarious foundation of the house.

“Food,” I muttered, scrounging through the bare cupboards. “I need real food. Not crackers. Or instant noodles.”

Admitting defeat, I wrapped a scarf around my neck and slipped my jacket on, preparing for an extremely overdue visit to the grocery store.

Pulling my hair free and throwing it over my jacket, I frowned at the kitchen door, wondering if the noise I was hearing was real or imagined.

I stilled, listening intently. I wasn’t scared of town murderers anymore, but there was no saying what other type of laborers Will would have coming to the house at any given time.

I heard it again. A sort of scratching, like someone—or something—was trying to get in.

“Hello?” I pulled the door open tentatively, staring down at the furry guest.

The orange tabby offered a meow, and I crouched to its level, offering it a scratch on the head.

“You again,” I greeted, remembering him from when I first moved in.

It rubbed up against my leg, desperate for more.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, thinking it rude to not offer something for my guest.

I opened the cabinet again, pulling out a can of tuna that had been there since before I moved in. Double checking for an expiration date, I peeled open the can and placed it on the ground in front of the cat.

He sniffed it, took a lick, and turned, rejecting my offering with quiet disdain.

“Geez,” I muttered. “Kind of a snobby cat.”

It stuck its tail up proudly before sauntering off into another room.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll get you cat food while I’m out.”

I grabbed my purse, wondering at the likelihood of the cat peeing in the house while I was gone.

“Even though fish is cat food.” I left the door cracked behind me, hoping it had the sense to do its business elsewhere other than on my carpet.

“Unless every cartoon I’ve ever watched lied to me,” I added as a final musing before setting off.

I felt like I was being watched.

It sounded a little narcissistic because, I mean, why would anyone be watching me grocery shop?

I wasn’t a movie star. I wasn’t a celebrity. I wasn’t even a published author yet.

But still, I had that uncanny feeling that there were eyes on me.

I reached forward for the butter, spinning at the last possible moment to look over my shoulder, just as two older women snapped their heads in the opposite direction at breakneck speed.

Yeah, I was definitely being watched.

The question was: why?

I looked down at myself, because I had been known occasionally to run out in pajama pants and slippers.

Not today, though. I was relieved to see that I was dressed in a perfectly acceptable pair of jeans and an earthy green sweater that an old man had once told me brought out my eyes—a compliment that might’ve made the item a staple in my wardrobe ever since.

However, I highly doubt everyone in the grocery store was that captivated by my green eyes to warrant the stares and whispers, so I could only assume it was something else.