Page 1 of It Runs in the Family

Chapter One

It all started when I saw myself dead.

It was a muggy March night, though most nights in Texas were muggy. The A/C at the Stop-n-Go was on the fritz. Not that the owner, Jimmy, let us set it below seventy-five degrees. He claimed the doors were open as much as they were closed, so there was no point in cooling the outside. My great-granny had shouted that same exact phrase plenty enough times. She’d even bellowed it at my cousin Billy an hour before she’d died from a burst blood vessel in her head ten years ago.

I worked as a cashier on the midnight shift because Jimmy paid me two dollars more an hour than the day and evening shift workers. Most people didn’t want the graveyard shift, but I didn’t mind. The store sat on a state highway between Dallas and Waco. Weeknights were usually slow, except when the Japanese auto parts plant let out at eleven. A good portion of the guys would swing in for cigarettes, snacks, and some beer to take home and unwind after a long, hot night in the plant.

I worked alone—the way I preferred it—but I was efficient, so the guys never seemed to mind waiting for me to ring them up.

The rush had ended about an hour earlier, and the only other person around was Digger, the town drunk, sitting on the curb outside eating his late dinner. It wasn’t unusual for him to hang around while I worked. I snuck him bottles of water and sandwiches that would’ve been thrown out the next day. Most of the town made fun of him, but he was relatively harmless.

He just needed a break.

I never felt unsafe working nights. Sure, we were on a state highway, but most people who passed through were just minding their business, stopping in on their way to somewhere more exciting than Chaffney, Texas—which, honestly, was just about anywhere else in the world. Most of my visitors were truckers who’d use the restroom and grab a monster-sized coffee or some caffeinated drink. I liked the truckers. Quite a few were regulars who came by a few times a week.

But that night, around one-thirty, a guy walked through the doors with a demeanor that set me on edge.

He looked dangerous and not in a he’s a hot bad boy and I haven’t been laid in three months kind of way. More like he’s going to rob me and shoot me in the head on the way out.

I’d never seen him before, which wasn’t unusual, given the previously mentioned state highway. I was used to the random tough guy walking in—I could handle them—but this guy was different. It was like the air in the place changed the second he stepped inside. Suddenly, it felt stale. Suffocating.

I forced myself to flash him a tight smile as he crossed the threshold and checked me out—a quick up and down—with eyes so cold my hair stood on end. Something in his eyes reminded me of my cousin Billy. He had that same sense of barely contained violence, only worse.

For the first time since I’d started this job three years ago, I was scared.

He looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a silky black shirt. His cheekbones were angular and his chin pointed. His hair and scrawny mustache were dark brown, but his eyes were even darker brown—almost black—adding to the dangerous aura. His tan, plus his large biceps and the crow’s feet around his eyes suggested he worked outside, but who knew doing what. Wrangling cattle seemed unlikely. He didn’t have the bow-legged swagger of a cowboy, and I’d yet to meet a cowboy who’d wear a silk shirt.

He headed to the drink coolers along the back wall.

Trying not to panic, I kept an eye on him as I pulled out my cell phone and glanced down long enough to punch in my code. A quick glance confirmed he was studying the beer selection, his back turned to me.

Keeping my phone below the counter, I opened my contacts and pulled up the number for my cousin Garrett—who happened to be a sheriff’s deputy. Then I realized that was a stupid idea. Out of all my many cousins, Garrett was the most responsible. He’d be in bed—sleeping, not screwing—this late on a weeknight, and he lived across town. He’d never get here in time to help me.

I set the phone down and ran my finger under the counter, reassuring myself the panic button I’d never pushed—and had nearly forgotten about—was still there.

I knew I was overreacting, but in the entire time I’d worked here, I’d never reacted to someone like this. I refused to ignore it. Years ago, my mother had paraded dozens of different men through our apartments, trailers, and houses, most of questionable character, and I’d learned to trust my instincts of dangerous men. Those instincts had just turned on sirens and flashing red lights.

The guy opened a cooler, grabbed a six-pack of Corona, then headed to the front, absently snatching a bag of Doritos from a rack as he passed. His gaze stayed locked on me, like he was taking in my features, as he set his items on the counter.

I was studying him too, trying to commit his face to memory in case he actually robbed me and I lived through it. Only I hoped I wasn’t being as obvious about it.

I scanned the beer, then the chips, my back tight as I waited for him to pull out a gun.

Instead, he pulled out a wallet.

My relief was palpable. Maybe my instincts were off. Or out of practice. I hadn’t lived with my mother in ten years, and I’d only seen her a handful of times since.

When the total appeared on the screen, he placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he said with a sleazy grin. “You remind me of someone.” He picked up his items and headed for the door.

And then my head began to tingle.

I groaned inwardly. Talk about shit timing. But there was no stopping an episode once it started.

My vision grew fuzzy, and I was plunged into a dark room full of chaos and shouting. My cousin Selena stood to the right of the person whose eyes I was seeing through. Not me. Because this was how my visions worked. I saw glimpses of other people’s futures, through their eyes, when they were physically close to me.

Only I was in this vision of the future too—standing directly across from the man whose body I was inhabiting.