Page 21 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

"I got him," I murmur against her hair, my voice a dark promise. "He's a dead man walking."

The Syndicate thinks they own this town. They think they hold all the cards. They have no idea a monster’s already inside the walls, and the monster just found his reason to slaughter.

7

Wendy

The brass deadbolt clicks. Three metallic snaps. Tyler walks through the back door of the Vinyl Vault, bringing the freezing night air and the scent of ozone with him. The amber lamplight catches the violent angle of his jaw. He doesn’t look like Tom from Portland right now. He looks like a man who just mapped out a slaughter.

He crosses the floorboards. The 1920s oak creaks under his boots. He drops a folded piece of paper on the oak counter.

"Tuesday's schedule," he says. His voice is a low vibration straight into my marrow. "Nadia gave it up. Three hundred bucks."

A bargain for the operational breakdown of a Syndicate enforcer. I pick up the paper. The handwriting is sharp, hurried. Times, license plates, intersections. The corporate machinery of Crimson Hollow’s misery, reduced to bullet points.

Headlights wash over the front window. Not passing by. Stopping. The rumble of a diesel engine vibrates through the front display glass.

My stomach drops. The Tuesday Enforcer isn't due for days. This is something else.

Tyler’s posture changes. The focused predator vanishes, replaced by the slouching, slightly dense cousin from Portland. It makes my teeth grind. The transition is too flawless. He’s done this a thousand times.

Fists pound on the front glass. The CLOSED sign rattles against the pane.

"Open up, Wendy. We know you're in there."

The voice belongs to Wally. Low-level bookie. Chop shop regular. A bottom-feeder who usually stays on the south end of town. The Syndicate’s corporate administration must be tightening the screws, sending the grunts out for random compliance checks.

Tyler moves. He doesn't ask permission. He steps in front of me, his broad back a wall between me and the door. "Do we let them in, or do we handle it out there?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. The Tom persona is just for show; the killer underneath is waiting for my command.

"If we don't open it, they'll break the glass," I whisper back. "And that glass is original. It costs more than my life."

I step around him. My hands shake, but I lock my knees. I turn the deadbolt on the front door and pull it open.

Three men. Wally ‘s in the middle, chewing a toothpick, flanked by two meatheads who look like they eat raw drywall for breakfast.

"Closed means closed, Wally," I say, crossing my arms.

He pushes past me. A shoulder-check that sends me stumbling.

A hand catches my elbow. Tyler. His grip is iron. He steadies me, his thumb pressing hard into the inside of my elbow. A silent anchor.

"Just doing an inventory check," Wally sneers, walking down the center aisle. His muddy boots track sludge over the pristine rugs. "Management wants to make sure all our local investments are thriving."

He drags his hand along a row of vintage 1970s rock. He doesn't just touch them. He shoves them. A dozen records spill out of the crate, the cardboard sleeves hitting the floorboards with a sickening clatter.

Heat crawls up my neck. My jaw locks. Those sleeves belonged to my mother. Every one, categorized by decade, by feel, by the emotional frequency they carry. I’ve spent years trapped in this town, breathing stale air, just to keep those records safe.

"Hey," Tyler says. He steps forward. The Tom persona is thick on his tongue—a little nasal, a little uncertain. "Take it easy on the merchandise, man. She’s got a system."

Wally stops. He turns, looking Tyler up and down. "You the cousin."

"Tom," Tyler says. He holds his ground, slumping his shoulders just enough to look non-threatening.

"Right. The cousin from Portland who suddenly needs a job at a dying record store." Wally spits his toothpick onto the floor. "Nobody visits Crimson Hollow. Management is curious about you, Tom."

"Just family helping family," Tyler says smoothly.

One of the meatheads grabs a crate of jazz records. He flips the crate upside down.