One more day in Phoenix might have put me over this edge I’ve been living on so long.
The real estate agent has already sent me the key to the house, but I decide to stop and get something to eat before going over. I pull into another diner, this one full of gray-haired old couples and one man sitting alone in a booth near the back, staring out the window into the gently falling evening rain.
Even sitting down, his size is obvious. His broad shoulders strain the seams of his black raincoat. His hands dwarf the ceramic mug they’re wrapped around. He looks like he had to wedge himself between the booth and the table to sit down.
It isn’t his size that really stands out, however. It’s the menacing air of stay away that emanates from him, the way he hunches over, the way the hood of his raincoat casts dark shadows over his face. As if he doesn’t want anyone to look at him.
As if he’s hiding.
“What can I get you, honey?”
The waitress standing behind the counter holds a carafe of coffee. She’s somewhere north of sixty, plump and red-cheeked, smiling like we’re old friends. I sit on one of the stools and plop my handbag on the counter. “I’ll have some of that coffee, please. And a Denver omelet with extra bacon on the side.”
If she thinks it odd that I want an omelet for dinner, she doesn’t mention it. She just nods and pours me a mug of coffee, then says she’ll be right back.
When she heads into the kitchen, I look around, sipping my coffee. It was too dark as I drove in to get a good view of the town, but I’ve studied the details long enough to have them memorized.
Seaside, Oregon is a small resort city with a beach known for its surf breaks, and a 1920s promenade with an arcade and an old-fashioned carousel. The population is a hair over six thousand, a far cry from the one and a half million who crowd Phoenix. The air is different here too, fresh and bracing, filled with the scent of salt and pine instead of smog and stone baked by the unrelenting desert sun.
I hope everything will be different here. I hope I can leave all my nightmares behind.
Preoccupied with thoughts of all the work that needs to be done to the house, I drink my coffee and eavesdrop on conversations, trying not to wonder what Cass would have to say about this place. How he’d be bouncing off his stool with excitement.
It’s several minutes before I realize I’m uncomfortable.
Surprised by the intensity of the feeling, I glance around. None of the patrons are looking my way. The music is cheerful, the interior of the diner is clean and bright, and everything appears normal. Boring, even.
Then why is the skin on the back of my neck crawling?
I glance over my shoulder and discover the reason. The guy in the raincoat is looking at me. No, not looking—glaring. Conspicuously hostile, he stares at me with total revulsion, as if I’ve deeply offended him in some way.
Cold, hard, and utterly black, his eyes are like obsidian.
I raise my brows and stare back at him, because I don’t have time for assholes with attitude problems.
“Here you go, honey.” The nice waitress deposits a plate in front of me. It’s overflowing with an omelet that could feed a family of four, topped by a messy pile of hash browns.
“Wow. That’s a lot of food.”
She laughs, her stomach jiggling. “I should’ve warned you about the portion sizes. Cal—that’s my husband—is the cook, and he likes folks to leave feeling like they got a lot for their money.”
“Tell Cal you can raise the price of this omelet by ten dollars, and I’d still feel like I got a lot for my money.” I poke at the huge, fluffy mound with my fork. “How many eggs are even in this thing?”
She chuckles. “Who knows. I gave up trying to get him to follow recipes years ago. I hope you like it, honey.”
“I’m sure I will, thanks.”
We share a smile, she ambles down the counter to refill someone’s coffee, and I dig in. I’m not what you’d call a dainty eater, so within a few minutes, I’ve polished off most of the omelet and have started to make a dent in the giant pile of hash browns. Just as I’m lifting the fork to my mouth, that strange feeling overtakes me again. All the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end and my ears burn like I’ve stuck my finger into an electrical socket.
I set my fork down, grit my teeth, and look over my shoulder.
Moody Raincoat Guy is staring at me with an expression like he’s about to jump out of the booth and open fire.
But what he doesn’t know about me is that I’m not the girl who wilts when confronted with awkward or potentially dangerous situations. I’m the girl who bares her teeth and growls.
I meet his burning gaze with an unflinching one of my own. “You got a problem?”