Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
While the guys are loading my groceries into the back, a woman pulls in next to my vehicle and quickly gets out of hers, hyper-focused on the two men.
“Oh my god! I’ve spotted you in the wild. Can I get a picture with you?”
The juggler grins, seemingly unsurprised by this request. He quickly agrees, and the other guy smiles too, but his grin appears somewhat forced.
The woman positions herself between them and extends her arm to take a selfie.
“Want me to get that for you?” I ask, more out of polite habit than anything else. I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m just going to go with it.
“My mom is going to be so excited when I send this to her,” the woman gushes. “Could I give you guys a hug?” When they agree, she wraps her arms around first the juggler, then his slightly-reluctant friend. “It was so great to meet you! You made my day.”
When she finally scurries off toward the store, I can’t let it go. “What was that about?”
The light-haired guy smirks. “Just someone else who knew Cam from his bag boy days.”
This elicits a laugh from the juggler, who’s apparently named Cam. Maybe I should introduce myself and ask the other man’s name, but it’s likely I’ll never see them again, and that will be a good thing.
Outside of their good looks, everything about them—the juggling, the marshmallows, the fans?—is all so strange.
“Thank you for your help with the groceries,” I say. “Should I tip you?”
Cam points a finger at me. “Good one.” He and the other man step backward, waving as they turn to push their cart away. “Have a good rest of your day.”
“You too.” I get in my car and reflexively lock the doors behind me. It’s something I always do, but it’s a very intentional action now, because I’m still weirded out by the whole encounter. Maybe I should go to a different grocery store next time.
The parking lot still isn’t crowded, so I have an unobstructed view of the men loading all of their marshmallows into the back seat of a black luxury sports car.
Hmm. The man, Cam, must have a much better job now than he did in high school. If I had to guess, I’d peg both men to be right around my age, or maybe even a couple of years younger, around 25, based on their youthful behavior, including buying a cartful of sugar.
When I turn my car on, the clock lights up on the dash. Crap, it’s already a quarter after nine, and it’s going to take about ten minutes to drive home, assuming traffic isn’t too heavy. This isn’t how I wanted to start my workday.
When I pull out of the lot, the sports car is right behind me. When I make my first turn, it turns too. I take my mind off of it for a minute to speculate about what type of work awaits me today, but when I make another turn, left this time, the car is still on my tail.
I shouldn’t have let them carry out my groceries. Just because they looked nice enough and the cashier knew them, doesn’t mean they’re decent people. Plenty of people put on an innocent facade to hide sinister intentions.
Maybe I’m being paranoid, but they seem to be following me.
CHAPTER 5
STELLA
I wrack my brain to try to remember where the police station is. I’ve never been in this situation before, but I remember the advice I’ve heard: drive to a police station so your follower will abandon their pursuit.
I have no idea idea where the police station is, but I’m definitely not leading these guys back to my house.
Giving thanks that Jessie isn’t with me, I scan the road ahead and spot a small medical plaza. After giving only a brief signal, I turn into the lot, and heave a sigh of relief when the sports car drives by without following me.
I park in a spot where I can see the road, and when there’s no sign of the black car after several minutes, I pull out and continue on my way. I was probably overreacting and letting my mind run wild, but you can’t be too careful.
It’s well after 9:30 when I finally get home, and I need to let the dog out and put away the groceries before I can log in for work. The dog, who I sometimes privately call G, is a two-year-old cockapoo mix with gold curly fur. He belongs to my friend and roommate, Marissa, but she got him right after we moved into this house, and I know she did it largely for Jessie’s benefit.
He greets me with a fluffy wagging tail when I open his crate, and then he bounds excitedly toward the sliding glass door that leads to the back yard. I’ll admit I didn’t really want a dog, because I knew it would be a lot of work, and I already have my hands full with Jessie, but the little guy has grown on me.