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Inside sits a barely used pair of sneakers. I remove each shoe from the tissue paper they’re nestled in to inspect the inside of each. Nothing. I survey the fluff of tissue paper in the box itself, and my shoulders slump when I still fail to find anything.
Dammit. Frustration edges its way in, and I barely resist the urge to carelessly plunk the sneakers back in the box. This is when my eyes snag on something.
I’d almost missed the skinny slip of paper whose color blends in with the tissue paper. Plucking it out, I read the single word written on it.
Eleanor
That’s it. A woman’s name. I flip the paper over, but nothing else is there.
Eleanor? I shake my head slowly as confusion settles over me. Who the hell is Eleanor?
A searing lance of pain assaults my head with a vengeance so fierce it has me sucking in a sharp breath. Fuck. I press my fingers against the radiating agony that’s settled above my brow bone. My movements are jerky and disjointed as I rush to set the note inside the shoebox just as I’d found it.
By the time everything’s as it was before, the throbbing in my skull has intensified. My fingers quake as I restart time, and with one hand pressed against the wall to steady myself, I stagger down the short hall toward the kitchen.
Each step triggers a stabbing pain behind my eyes and through my temples. As my jaw locks, my teeth grind together, straining the muscles down my neck.
I shove the ice cream back in the freezer, exchanging it for an ice pack. Another wave of pain batters away at me as I toss my spoon in the sink. I double over, gripping my head while tears blur my vision.
Stalking clumsily toward my bed, I collapse atop the covers, curling up into the fetal position, and fall asleep cradling the ice pack to my aching head.
12
MAC
Wednesday morning
An annoying song about cake by an ocean plays on the local radio station; I tune it out while inspecting the two tires I pulled off an old Honda coupe.
It was recently towed here, and while the rear tires are basically worthless, the front two are in new condition and worth salvaging.
Hefting the two good tires over each shoulder, I carry them outside and stack them with the other salvaged tires sitting beneath the roof’s overhang. I dust off my hands just as the radio morning show’s host segues into their usual update.
“And in local news, citizens of Jacksonville are on alert after a man’s body was discovered washed up on the banks of the St. Johns River near the Acosta Bridge.
“Anonymous sources have said that The Scorpions, the notorious gang led by Bronson Cortez, are to blame. However, police haven’t offered confirmation and said it’s unclear whether or not this crime was, in fact, gang related.
“The sheriff’s office will hold a press conference later today to share more information once the victim’s family has been notified. Stay tuned to FM 95 for more on this.”
I set the heavy rims off to the side, and my thoughts drift to this morning and the lingering ache lodged directly behind my eyes.
Heat from the bright sun warms me, but it sure as shit doesn’t make my head feel any better. I’d hoped my first cup of coffee would boot the remnants of my headache, but to no avail. I’m at least grateful the brunt of the razor-sharp pain subsided.
That migraine had been a doozy, because I don’t remember much from last night aside from the vague memory of eating my ice cream at some point.
“There were no winners from last week’s lottery, so the jackpot has increased even more, to a whopping…”
A crunch of tires over the gravel leading through the open gate mingles with the low rumble of an older Ford diesel pickup as it approaches. I head through the door leading to the inside shop and the massive inventory of parts to wait for my customer to enter.
The tiny bell chimes when he pulls open the door and steps inside. Hair slightly damp, Hayden’s clean-shaven face offers me a bright smile. “Mornin’, Mac.”
I grunt and force a small smile of my own. “Is it?”
Hayden’s one of a handful of men around this town who doesn’t treat me like I’m a piece of freakish ass he’s craving to tap or the never-ending butt of a joke. Nor does he refuse to patronize my business simply because I’m a woman who owns a goddamn salvage yard.
A female who knows her way around cars and their parts is evidently a threat to some low-testosterone fuckers. However, Hayden Gilst doesn’t fall into that category.
The category Hayden does fall into, however, is the one labeled We can’t suppress our wince when we look at Mac’s face. It’s a bummer since he’s actually a nice guy. Then again, he’s also the commitment type, and that’s something I want no part of.
