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She looked into the recent activity, the calls and texts and e-mail connections that had gone in and out, and said, “Looks like we’d better check out someone named Reggie.”
Jessica’s shift was over at nine that night. Dead tired, her lower back aching from hours on her feet, her brain was exhausted from the mental strain of a double-shift and not sleeping due to her wild dreams. She’d been dragging all day.
Misty had even seen fit to comment, “Not our usual Miss Merry Sunshine today, are we?”
Jessica had wanted to tell her to shove it, but had held her tongue.
She was tired, cranky, and hungry. She hadn’t been able to choke down any of the leftovers that had been congealing on the counter for the better part of the evening. They’d consisted of an order of fries proclaimed “too salty” by a customer, and a wilted salad that had been topped by French dressing when the patron had insisted she’d said, “dressing on the side.” As was the custom at the Midway Diner, orders that were returned to the kitchen weren’t immediately thrown out, but left for the staff, should they be interested, before they were tossed into the trash.
“Waste not, want not,” Nell had professed to them enough times that it had become a standing joke behind the boss’s back. The trouble was that Marlon took Nell’s suggestion to heart and somehow, in between clearing and resetting tables, washing dishes, and even swabbing the floors for spills, he was able to inhale anything that was placed in the return area of the counter. Hamburgers, chicken strips, Diet Cokes that were supposed to have been the real thing and desserts that were just “too rich” or “not what I thought” or “really, I said coconut cream, not banana,” somehow got gobbled up while he was on the job. So all that was left were the unappealing cold fries and wilted lettuce.
She didn’t waste any time leaving and was glad Misty and Marlon were handling the few stragglers who might wander in. She just wanted to get home.
As if that cold, dark cabin could ever be considered anything close to what she would think of as her home.
Inside the Tahoe, she flipped on the engine and the wipers as desultory flakes of snow were drifting from the heavens. Her stomach rumbled and though it seemed ridiculous after working around food in a diner for most of the day, she decided to stop at the local pizza parlor that she’d spied earlier in the week.
Within ten minutes, she was pulling into a parking spot on the street one block away from Dino’s Italian Pizzeria. She hurried inside and the sharp smells of tomato sauce and oregano hit her in a warm, welcoming wave. The crowd was thinning out, and it didn’t take long to reach the counter and order a small pizza to go. As she waited, she sat at a table in the corner and watched people coming and going, attacked by more than one pang of desperation. Here were people, all involved in their personal lives—teenagers goofing around with friends, even blowing the papers off straws at each other; a frazzled mother trying to corral three stair-step toddlers, all of whom made a beeline to the ice cream counter; other tweens playing video games in an arcade; a twentysomething couple who held hands as they decided on what kind of pizza to order. Everyday people. Ordinary lives. With the common stresses and worries of normal living.
No one running for his or her life.
No one concerned that a crazed husband was intent on killing her.
“Pizza to go for Williams,” a teenager behind the counter called and she was out of her chair in an instant. She collected her order and carried the box outside. Snow was still threatening, a few solitary flakes drifting from the sky, catching in the lamplight. Cars rolled by on the quiet streets and she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.
Don’t be a fool. No one’s followed you.
But she kept up her pace and sensed her heartbeat beginn
ing to increase, her pulse pounding. Last night’s dream crawled through her brain in a frightening memory that she struggled to shake off.
The street was deserted, nothing to worry about, not a soul on the icy sidewalks, no car moving slowly along the snowy asphalt.
You’re fine. Nothing to worry about.
A figure rounded the corner in front of her and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
But it was nothing, just a woman walking her dogs. Jessica let out her breath slowly and was about to step into the street when the woman called her name. “You’re Jessica,” she said in a voice that was cold as the night.
Jessica hesitated. The knife in her bra would be hard to reach because of her coat, and the pistol was tucked under the seat of the SUV. “Yes,” she said. “Do I know you?”
“I’ve seen you,” the woman said, advancing slowly in her long, white hooded coat. Her dogs were large and shaggy, their heads lowered, their gold eyes looking upward to hers. Though not on leashes, they kept pace with their mistress, noiselessly moving forward, staying close to her side. “You visited my dreams, Anne-Marie. You worry me.”
“What did you say?” Jessica stopped. Aside from Cade, no one in this town knew her real name. “I’m sorry, you’re mistaken.”
“Am I?” The woman was so serene, almost ghostly.
Realization flashed. She must be Grace Perchant with her wolf-dogs and claims of talking with the dead.
“You’re in danger.” Still Grace approached.
“From whom? Or what?” Jessica asked, poised for flight. Where the hell were all the people? It wasn’t that late. Why wasn’t someone coming out of Dino’s or the pub down the street?
The woman closed the distance between them. Under the lamplight, Jessica saw that her eyes were light green and piercing, her pale blond hair mixed with gray, strands blowing around her face where it escaped her hood. Her skin was so white it appeared almost bloodless.
“From him,” the odd woman clarified in that same emotionless voice.
“Who?”
