Page 10 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

I swallow hard, forcing my eyes away from his intense stare. "You're just playing a part, Portland. Don't get invested."

His thumb traces my jawline, a slow stroke of possession. "I’m already invested, Wendy."

He stands up before I can formulate a witty comeback. He takes his coffee and resumes his post at the front window. Leaving me sitting on the floorboards, my skin burning, my chest tight with a terrifying new kind of hope.

Then Tuesday arrives.

Tuesdays are a poison pill in Crimson Hollow.

It starts in the morning. The air in town shifts. The few pedestrians on the sidewalk walk faster, their heads down, their shoulders hunched. The rusted cars don't linger at the four-way stop outside the shop. By noon, the silence on the street is suffocating. The town holds its breath, waiting for the boot to drop.

I stand behind the counter, organizing a stack of 45s. My hands aren’t steady. I drop a sleeve. I pick it up. I wipe down the oak counter three times in an hour. I hate Tuesdays. I hate the compromise I make every week to keep my mother's shop open. I hate that I participate in my own extortion just to survive.

Tyler notices. Of course he does. He misses nothing.

He watches my frantic wiping of the counter. He watches my hands shake as I sort the records. He doesn't offer empty platitudes. He doesn't tell me it’ll be okay. He just watches, his presence a silent anchor in the room.

At 2:30 p.m., Tyler steps out of the back room.

He doesn't have a record in his hands. He doesn't pretend to browse. He walks straight behind the counter and stands right beside me. His arm brushes my shoulder. The heat of him is a stark contrast to the cold dread sitting in my stomach.

"What are you doing?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"Waiting."

"For what?"

He checks his watch. 2:45 p.m. "Just waiting."

He knows. I stare at his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The focused intensity radiating off him. He knows what happens on Tuesdays at three o'clock. His intelligence gathering is flawless.

"You can't be back here," I tell him, my pulse picking up speed. "When he comes, you have to be browsing. You have to be the cousin."

"I am the cousin." He doesn't look at me. His eyes are locked on the front glass. "And I'm standing right here."

2:50 p.m.

I reach under the counter. My fingers brush the cold metal of the cashbox. I pull out the plain white envelope. Inside is three hundred dollars. Small bills. The tax for breathing inside the Syndicate's administrative grid. It’s the cost of my mother's ghost.

I set the envelope on the oak.

Tyler looks at the white paper. A muscle works in his jaw. The temperature in the space plummets. He’s angry. Not at me. At the envelope. At the necessity of it.

2:55 p.m.

The vinyl spinning on the turntable reaches the end of the track. The needle hits the dead wax in the center, producing a rhythmic, hypnotic pop-hiss, pop-hiss, pop-hiss. Neither of us moves to lift the arm. We just listen to the static.

3:00 p.m.

The bell over the front door chimes.

The Tuesday Enforcer steps into the shop.

He isn’t one of the goons from last week. He’s leaner, sharper. He wears a tailored charcoal suit that costs more than my inventory. His black leather shoes click against the oak floorboards. He smells of expensive peppermint and cold copper. He runs the block. He collects the tribute.

The Enforcer stops ten feet from the counter. He looks at me. Then, he looks at Tyler.

The air in the room turns into broken glass.