Page 100 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

Me?

I collect people.

Not in the serial-killer way relax. More in the writer's way. Expressions. Habits. The tiny things nobody else notices. Like the woman in aisle three who always taps every avocado before choosing one, or the old man who reads every cereal box like there's going to be a plot twist on the back. Everyone is somebody's character. Most of them just don't know it yet.

The thought made me smile as I turned the sedan into the cracked asphalt parking lot of the Blackridge General Store.

The engine died with a mechanical shudder, leaving the cab smelling of cold vinyl, old paper, and the faint ghost of bleach that still lingered beneath my fingernails after this morning's cleaning spree.

"You squashed my hat," Gerald muttered from somewhere inside my oversized leather handbag.

"You don't even have organs," Frank replied from beneath a pile of folded grocery receipts.

"Neither do you."

"I have emotional organs."

"No. You have emotional damage."

"I have standards."

I sighed, pulling the keys from the ignition with a metallic clink.

"I'm separating the two of you and putting you on opposite shelves if you keep this up."

Silence. Beautiful, immediate silence. I grabbed my canvas bags, climbed out into the warm mountain air, and headed toward the automatic doors. Halfway there, I stopped. Because writers are nosy. No, I am lying, I am nosy. We pretend we're admiring architecture when we're actually people-watching.

Speaking of… You're reading this, aren't you? Maybe with coffee. Maybe curled up in bed. Maybe sitting somewhere sunny or cold. Judging my words or laughing at Gerald and Frank. Maybe you've convinced yourself you're definitely not the sort of person who gets creeped out by books. That's cute. Tell me...

Did you lock your front door?

Don't check.

If you check now, I'll know I made you think about it. And if you didn't check…

Well…

Now you're wondering if you should.

Across the two-lane street, parked beneath the rusted awning of the hardware store, sat Elias's grey pickup. Even from here, I knew it before my brain had properly registered the shape. The truck looked exactly like its owner.

Nothing flashy. Nothing polished. Just dependable steel scarred by use, mud dried along the wheel wells. The hood still clicked softly as the engine cooled, thin ribbons of heat curling into the crisp mountain air before dissolving into nothing.

He leaned against the driver's side with one boot crossed over the other. One hand disappeared into the pocket of his canvas jacket while the other lazily cradled a paper coffee cup.

To anyone else...

He looked relaxed. He wasn't. Relaxed people don't catalogue exits. Relaxed people don't unconsciously angle their bodies toward open spaces. Relaxed people don't let their eyes drift over every parked vehicle, every rooftop, every stranger who wanders too close.

His gaze swept the square.

Windows. Doorways. Reflections. Vehicles. People. Back to windows again. A slow, practiced rhythm. Almost invisible. Military training never truly leaves you. It simply becomes quieter. You learn to disguise hypervigilance as curiosity.

His shoulders fascinated me most. Broad enough to make almost every doorway look too small, yet never truly at ease. They carried tension the way old oak trees carried scars naturally. Permanently. As though somewhere inside his bones he was still waiting for something to explode.

I wondered if he even knew he did it.

Probably not.