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Across the street, country music poured from the partially opened door of a local bar. Laughter and shouts filtered down the two-lane street. Maybe I could talk Trap or Shade into taking me there one night. It had been easy to stay cooped up in the house while I got to know the two men, but now I itched to do something outside our homes.
I startled, breath catching in my throat and sending my heart racing when a group of men stumbled out, laughing and shoving one another. Dipping farther into the shadows, I quickened my steps and kept one eye on the rowdy group to ensure they stayed on their side of the street, far away from me.
But I paused mid-step when the same door opened again, this time a woman walking out, distracted as she dug through her large handbag. When I looked to where the group was just seconds before, I found they had paused, too, their attention also on the woman.
Maybe it was all those crime shows making me assume everyone had bad intentions or was harboring serial killer tendencies, but I couldn’t shake the unease that rolled through my stomach as I watched them study her. When one of the group started walking toward the woman, who had yet to notice me or the men, I sucked in a breath, the cold air slicing down my throat.
This was it. I was about to witness, in real life, the opening story they told when detailing the last few moments the victim was ever seen. This could end up being a20/20feature one day, everyone wondering what happened to the sweet small-town girl who up and disappeared one night after having drinks with her friends.
And the man now stalking toward her had definite serial killer vibes. My radar had been wrong when I suspected Trap and Shade—and my gaydar, too, apparently—but it was not mistaken this time.
Sure, I was just one woman, but I couldn’t let her vanish, be some missing person case with her picture posted on flyers nailed to every electric pole in town. No, this was my time to stop the inevitable.
Tightening my hold around the plastic bag holding Trap’s food, I dug my hand into my purse, fingers brushing against the smooth metal handle of my switchblade.
Curling it into my palm, I pulled my hand free, keeping the blade retracted as I hurried across the two-lane street, my narrowed eyes locked on the man now reaching into his pocket.
“Hey,” I shouted as I rounded a parked car. Both he and the woman jumped, startled to find me standing only a few feet away from them between two cars.
Noticing my hard glare directed behind her, the woman turned to face the man who was only ten feet away now. By her expression, she clearly didn’t know a predator was slowly stalking her.
Amateur. If we survived this, I would write out a list of shows for her to watch. Then she’d be hyperaware of her surroundings, like me.
Hyperaware. Not paranoid.
Made me feel less crazy.
Flicking the blade open, I jutted my arm out and pointed the tip at his face.
Shock and fear overcame his pudgy features as his hands shot into the air. One was open, palm out, the other….
I squinted to see what nefarious killing tool he held in his grip, ready to use against his unsuspecting victim. Tilting my head to get a better angle, cold washed over me from head to toe, followed by the heat of embarrassment as I registered what he held.
“What the hell are you doing?” he exclaimed.
Slowly, I lowered the knife but kept my white-knuckled grip in case the bills in his hand were a trick.
“Protecting her?” I said, though it sounded more like a question.
“Everything okay here?” I recognized the voice behind me, but I didn’t turn.
Max stepped beside me, his hand coming to rest on my wrist, keeping the knife by my side.
“That crazy woman pointed a knife at me,” the man exclaimed.
It was very rude to call me crazy, considering all I wanted to do was save a life.
“What were you doing stalking her?” I snapped. Wiggling my hand out of Max’s hold, I pointed the knife at the man again to make my point.
“Please don’t use the knife like a laser pointer,” Max muttered under his breath as he grabbed my hand and slowly brought the knife back to my side.
“I forgot to leave a tip. And when I saw her come out of the bar, I remembered.” He waved the money in his hand. “Is that a crime?”
“He and his friends were my last table of the night,” the woman said, looking at me like she feared me. “And they did stiff me.”
“Sorry about that,” the man grumbled. Keeping one eye on me, he stepped closer and stretched to hand the woman the money. “We good?”
Max sighed and nodded to both, though they kept a watchful eye on me as they parted ways.
