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I unpack a box and sort the contents, hoping it will be enough to distract me. However, the thoughts stubbornly persist. So I grab my bag from the nearby chair and fish out my Discman, realizing I haven’t used it much since summer. It feels like such a long time ago now.
I put on my headphones and let the sound of the music wash away my doubts. The mix of synth beats, heavy bass lines, and Trent Reznor’s moody vocals provides a much-needed escape. As I finish cataloging the contents of the box and move on to the next, someone taps me on the shoulder, startling me.
“Sorry for spooking you,” she says, motioning to the door as I take off my headphones. “But there’s someone that wants to talk to you.”
My brow quirks, paranoia creeping in. “Who?”
“Don’t know.” She shrugs, then leans down close to my ear. “But I’d be careful. He looks a little … dodgy.”
Reluctantly, I set aside the Discman and stand. I walk back into the main part of the store, where a familiar man stands in front of the counter while Andy busies himself with stocking the shelves. Cautiously, I approach Detective Bryant.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I ask tentatively.
“Yes.” With his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses, I struggle to read his expression. “I was just in the area and thought I’d drop by. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”
I’m unsure why he’s here—but I don’t think it’s for anything good. “I’m on the clock, but …” I need to choose my words carefully. “Why are you here?”
He takes a long pause before speaking. “I’m here to ask about the murder of Jennifer Breck,” he answers, removing his sunglasses. “I believe there’s more to the story than you’re letting on.”
I try not to give him any sign that I’m rattled by the question. “You’re a long way from your jurisdiction, detective,” I say.
“You never followed up with the Sturgis police,” he points out, fixing his gaze on me.
“That’s because I told them everything I know,” I lie, barely containing my voice.
His gaze stays fixed on me, and the intensity of it cuts through me. Every nerve in my body is on edge. Does he suspect something? I’m almost certain he does, but I doubt there’s anything he can do to prove his suspicions. He’s about to speak when the bell chimes and a customer enters.
“Do you need anything else?” I ask, putting on my best customer service voice.
He says nothing, just shakes his head, and bids me farewell before leaving. As soon as he leaves, I exhale, my heart thumping heavily against my ribcage. Even though I didn’t feed him any information, I still feel uneasy. There’s no telling what he’ll do next, or if he’ll come back again.
“What was that all about?” Zoey asks as she exits the break room.
I wave a hand at her dismissively and glue on a smile. “Nothing to worry about. Do you mind taking care of any customers while I finish up inventory?”
If she notices something is off, she thankfully doesn’t prod—which is almost uncharacteristic of the Zoey from just a few months ago. “No problem,” she replies, going behind the counter. “I always hated doing that boring shit, anyway.”
Returning to the break room, I slide into the chair, the papers still spread out in front of me. I slip my headphones back on, restart the album, and continue with my inventory duty. But despite my efforts to avoid thinking about Detective Bryant, the feeling of unease still prickles my spine.
I spent the rest of the day in a daze, too caught up in my anxiety to be fully present. Zoey was a champ, fielding them while teaching Andy work protocol. She never nosed into my business, but I could tell by looking at her face that she was concerned.
By the end of my shift, I’m still just as anxious as when the detective came in. I try to keep a low profile, doing only what’s necessary before rushing out to the parking lot and getting into my car. Just as I’m about to pull out onto the road, something catches my eye: a nondescript black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street. Though I can’t see inside, I can’t help but feel like someone’s watching me.
Shivering, I drive away, stealing glances in the rearview mirror the entire ride home. I’m paranoid that the vehicle is following me, that it’s the detective determined to find out anything he can to tie the murders to me and Damon. I try to push the thought away, but it refuses to budge.
Once I’m inside my apartment, I close all the curtains and dim all the lights. I’m not sure if it’ll make a difference, but it makes me feel better. Then I turn on some music and attempt to distract myself with mindless tasks. Eventually, exhaustion takes over and I curl up in bed, drifting off into a restless sleep.
Unfortunately, my paranoia may be justified after all.
The sedan keeps appearing everywhere I go, for almost two weeks straight. It must be Detective Bryant tracking me. Maybe this is his way of pressuring me to talk before he finds something out, something that could put Damon and me behind bars. The thought of this life I’ve built with him—as messed up as it is—being destroyed terrifies me.
I can’t keep this up forever, being stalked by this bureaucratic asswipe.
When I enter my apartment after stopping at Tetra Brew, I find Damon already lounging on my couch, sparing me a glance as he watches a gory horror movie.
“Let me just cut to the chase,” he begins. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange lately.”
I take off my coat and kick off my shoes, being careful not to spill the drinks in the takeout carrier I hold. “Someone’s been following me,” I say as I cross the room, setting the carrier on the coffee table.
