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“I don’t know,” I grumble.
“What the hell happened?”
“I have no idea,” I start, grabbing the bag of sandwiches and pulling out my lunch. “I came in, fired up the laptop, and it started playing that song. What time is it?”
“Just after one. And that one horrible song? Over and over?” she asks incredulous, taking a bite of her own sandwich.
“Yes, it’s been horrible. I lost about six sales this morning because no one wants to shop with Tammy Wynette screaming in their ears.” I’ve been listening to that singular song on repeat for almost four hours.
“You don’t even like country music,” she adds, pointing out what we both already know.
“I know. When I loaded up the library, I can promise you Tammy Wynette wasn’t added to either playlist.” I have two: one that can play softer music at the shop, and the other with my favorite tunes from all my favorite artists for after I close.
“And the fact you couldn’t turn it off? It’s like someone played a joke on you,” she says just as I take a bite of my sandwich. It turns to dust on my tongue and like puzzle pieces, things start to click together.
“Latham.”
“What?”
“Who else would tamper with my laptop? Plus, he’s the one who set it up!” I growl, balling up my empty sandwich wrapper and tossing it in the garbage. I start to pace, back and forth between the counter and the front window. I walk four miles in a short amount of time, trying to figure out what to do.
What to do…
Anger grabs hold, balling in the pit of my stomach before coursing recklessly through my blood. I’m at the door before I even realize what’s happening. “You’re okay?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I’m fine. Go.”
That’s the only reply I need before I’m out the door and stomping down the block to the hardware store. The moment my feet hit the sidewalk, the rain cuts loose, pouring down so hard that it practically hurts when it hits your skin. I start to run, but it doesn’t help. When I reach the front door of Douglas Hardware, I’m soaked through like a drowned rat. Figures…
I rip open the door with aggression, the friendly little bell announcing my arrival when I enter, annoying me further. My sandals squeak as I head to the counter in search of the man whose balls I’d love to squeeze in a vise right now. Only when I reach it, it’s not Latham I find, but the older (and friendlier) version of the man I loathe.
“Harper!” he says happily, before taking in my soaked appearance. “Oh, dear, you got caught in the rain.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Douglas,” I reply, feeling a tad bit of my annoyance wash away. I mean, it’s not his fault his son is a horrible, conniving devil who deserves to have his intestines ripped out with a wooden spoon. “Is Latham around?” I ask, shoving my wet hair from my eyes.
“He’s off on Monday afternoons,” he says, a hint of laughter in the old man’s eyes.
“Great,” I mumble, feeling the weight of my anger wash away in defeat.
I turn to head back to the door, leaving a trail of rainwater in my wake, when he speaks again. “I think he’s upstairs, dear. You’re welcome to go up and have a word with him.” The way he says it, with a tinge of mirth in his voice, has me pause. “He’s up there alone. It’s well insulated and private. You know, in case you have to yell.” Now, he does smile.
Steeling my back, I face Latham’s father. “Thank you, Mr. Douglas. I’d love a few moments to speak with him.” My anger sweeps back in like a mini tornado, ready to pummel and damage whatever stands in its path.
And that path is leading me to Latham.
“Up those stairs back there. He rarely locks the door,” Bud says, a small smile on his face as he continues to price whatever new product is in the box without giving me a second glance.
“Thank you,” I state as I move around the counter and head toward the stairs. As I ascend quietly, I can hear Bud humming a happy little tune. I keep my movements light, not wanting to tip Latham off to a visitor just yet. I prefer the element of surprise, which is why I find myself gently turning the knob on the door and happy to find it unlocked – as speculated.
I quietly push open the door and step inside the tiny kitchen that opens to a small living room. There’s not much room to maneuver, and I can’t help but wonder how a man as big as Latham moves around in this itty-bitty apartment. Sound filters from another room, letting me know he is, indeed, home. Before I have a chance to close the door, his words find their way to where I stand. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as realization sets in.
He’s humming.
He’s humming Tammy Wynette.
The same song that just so happened to be blasting through my shop for the last four hours.
Yeah, I’m going to kill him.
