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My spine stiffens, and my heart beats so fast it pulses in my ears. This makes no sense. Someone doesn’t rob a store with their dog. Do they?
There are cameras, but no one is monitoring them; no one would save me.
“Um …” I clear my throat. “We’re closing soon. Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you find?” My voice trembles as I make my way behind the counter again—the broom clanks when my shaky hand leans it against the door to the back room.
Keeping his head bowed, he steps up to the counter, grabs random items within arm’s length of the register, and tosses them in front of me.
“Are you paying with a credit card? We only accept credit cards. There is no cash in the store.”
Nothing for you to rob.
He slowly lifts his head, giving me my first good look at him. Beneath the dark blond scruff on his face, he has a strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips, and distrusting cobalt eyes. A half-inch scar slants toward his temple just above his left eyebrow.It’s flat and a shade lighter than the rest of his skin, like it’s been there for years.
I mentally note it, along with his curled, dirty blond hair peeking out in all directions from his hat. If I live to talk to the cops, I’ll tell them he’s over six foot, maybe six-two or six-three. Athletic build with broad shoulders. Robust hands with thick knuckles. He’d easily be able to strangle me with just one of them.
“You take cash,” he says matter-of-factly.
Chills claim my skin like a pond’s surface, surrendering to winter. And I feel just as frozen in place. Still, who brings their dog to a robbery? Or is this a homicide in the making?
He’s calling my bluff. He and his dog have sniffed out my lie. I want to scream, but I’m too terrified to scream. I’ve had this nightmare, the one where the fear is so great that it has me in a choke hold, so when I open my mouth to cry for help, nothing comes out.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I whisper before pressing my trembling lips together.
I would give anything for someone to walk through the door. There have been so many nights when someone has rushed into the store, grateful they caught me before I locked the door because they needed something.
Not tonight.
He narrows his eyes briefly before his pinched brows release and spring up his forehead. He holds up his hands as if I’m the one who might harm him. “Scottie, I’m not going to hurt you.”
I yank open the drawer below the register and pull out a pair of scissors before taking several steps backward. “How do you know my name?”
“I’m Koen.”
I shake my head. I didn’t ask his name.
“Herb Sikes’s grandson.”
I hear him, but it still takes a few seconds for everything to register. “W-what are you doing here?” I lower the scissors but keep a firm grip on them.
Killers have families and grandfathers who probably adore them because they don’t know they’re killers. Herb said Koen’s the silent type.
Just like a killer.
Most killers have above-average IQs. And cute dogs. Unsuspecting little accomplices.
“I was just checking you out.” He cringes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, that sounded all wrong. I meant I wanted to see if you were …” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how to say this.” Koen pulls off his hat and scratches his head, ruffling his thick, mussed hair.
“You were afraid he fixed you up with a dog,” I say, letting the tension fall off my shoulders while I return the scissors to the drawer and blow out a slow breath.
“I like dogs,” he nods to his dog, “so that would have been an acceptable arrangement.” A shy grin steals his lips. “Sorry, bad joke.” He glances around the store.
He’s nervous. I can’t believe I feared for my life just seconds earlier.
Do I tell him I was hoping to cancel our date?
“My grandfather is a kind man. He once tried to fix me up with a woman who was six months pregnant and going through a divorce.” He wrinkles his nose.
It’s kind of cute.
