ONE
THREE YEARS LATER
“Amy! Table eight!”
“Got it!”
I yell over my shoulder, slowly making my way toward the table in question. The restaurant is rather busy today, which is odd for a Tuesday. We have our regular customers, drop-off orders for the corporate bunch that works in the area, and take-out requests. Though, it’s awfully chatty and packed with people for a normal day, something this restaurant hasn’t experienced in the past couple of months.
“Good morning,”
I offer a polite smile. “I’m Amy, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get started for you?”
An elderly couple is in front of me, holding hands over the table. They’re in their late sixties, with matching gray hair and outfits. The wrinkles around their eyes are a clear indication of their age, if the gray hair wasn’t enough.
Voices start suggesting a lot of terrible, murderous ideas, but I shoot them down, forcing them to stay quiet.
“What would you recommend, dear?”
A painless death. You’ve lived long enough.
“Our roasted chicken in a thick, creamy mushroom sauce is great.”
The lady smiles at me, showing her pearly white, obviously fake, teeth. “Sure, hon, we’ll get that.”
I write that on my notepad, nod with a smile, and move toward the kitchen. I pass the note to the chef, Stanley. He’s humming a song, like he always does, with a big, wide grin on his face.
It’s a family-owned restaurant in the small town of Long Grove, Illinois. After my escape, I hitchhiked and found myself in the hands of an elderly couple who were generous enough to take me in for a while.
After I made sure no one would track me down or recognize me, I started looking for jobs. Stanley’s diner was one of the rare places that was willing to overlook the lack of experience and offer me a decent salary. Not enough to live in luxury, but good enough not to be completely broke.
I think they just took pity on me.
The chef, Stanley, is the owner. His wife, Carol, is always in the kitchen helping him. Despite the restaurant being crazy busy today, the two share a matching smile on their faces. They’re still as in love as they were the first time they met.
The only reason I know that is because half of the regulars are retired couples who cannot stop talking about Stanley and Carol and their youth. The restaurant is filled with family pictures, alongside the pictures of the staff, some of whom no longer work here.
I politely declined the offer to put my picture on the wall.
It’s a risk I cannot afford to take.
Blair Hawke was declared dead, alongside everyone else in that prison. To this day, the killers were never caught, but they’re still being sought. Thankfully, a few other bodies were missing on the day, and the police wrote it off as a personal attack on them and me.
No body, no crime.
Still, I can’t risk anyone seeing or recognizing me.
That’s half the reason I opted for such a small city, with a population of less than ten thousand people. It’s beautiful, cheap to live in, and people generally mind their own business.
No one bothers me, and I prefer it like that.
Once the chicken is prepared, I take it back out to the couple with a smile. They return the emotion with a wide smile of their own before digging in and starting a conversation amongst themselves.
The small bell above the freshly painted door breaks my gaze away from the couple, and I sigh out in annoyance.
The mailman, whose name I learned to be Jack, brings another pitch-black box.
“Amy,”
he greets politely. “Another one for you.”
I roll my eyes, taking the box in one hand and pulling out a pen from my apron with the other one. I scribble on the delivery paper, then put the pen back in its place.
“You have a secret admirer,”
Jack teases.
I lift a brow, my voice dry. “You think?”
He beams. “Of course! A gift every month? On the same day? The guy must be smitten with you.”
The day I officially took on the name of Amy Marshall, the gifts started pouring in. Every seventh of the month, a box is delivered, and it’s not a coincidence.
Mainly because the boxes may be addressed to Amy Marshall, but the contents are definitely intended for Blair Hawke. Someone knows – no matter how much I deny it, someone knows, and it’s a fucking threat.
“Amy,”
Carol strolls from the kitchen, and I hide the box behind my back.
“Yes, Carol?”
“Would you mind covering Layla’s shift tomorrow? She called in sick. I know you’re probably busy, but I have no one else.”
“Of course, no worries.”
It just means more money for me.
Besides, I owe it to Layla. She covered a lot of my shifts in the past. At first, the gifts I started receiving were sporadic. It was every three months, then every two months, and now it’s every month. And each time I’d get them, I could barely leave my bed.
I’d stay locked up in the vacant house, afraid to move from my room. The darkness always consumed me almost to the point of no return.
Almost.
“You should go out more,”
Carol notes. She acts like a worried mother, not that I’d know what that feels like, given that mine was terrible. “How are you supposed to meet new people if you’re spending all your free time alone?”
I shrug. “I love my peace. Being alone is good.”
The door of the restaurant opens, and another customer comes in, leaving the conversation to linger in the air. Even if I get lonely and tired of being alone, how do I even begin to trust a person? The fact that I’m so used to being alone, with no one to depend on, is terrifying. My trust was breached too many times by the people who were supposed to protect me.
It only proves that the only person I can trust and count on is myself.
Now, I have two options here.
A) Clean everything spotless, since I am working the opening shift in the morning. It means less work for tomorrow’s Blair, though I’ll sleep two hours less tonight.
B) Deal with the mess in the morning and pray to the Lord that I manage to clean everything before the first customer appears.
Eventually, I decide to go with option A. Regardless of the potential lack of sleep, in the morning, I’ll be able to drink my coffee in peace, read newspapers, and get a snack before the busy day starts.
By far, Wednesdays are our busiest days. Since it’s a very family-oriented restaurant, and children below the age of twelve have fewer classes during that day, families often visit with their kids during lunch hours.
The mere thought of obnoxious laughter is enough to fill me with dread.
With a sigh, I bend and pick up the last piece of trash. After an hour of wiping tables, making sure the area is spotless, and the tiles have never been as sparkly, it’s time for me to close.
Covering for Layla’s shift turned out to be one of the best decisions. Although it wasn’t too busy, two of our regulars dropped by. They had a lot of beer and whiskey, and each round they tipped great.
My mind wanders off to the amount of money I have saved up.
At this rate, I’ll be able to make enough money soon enough and be able to move somewhere far, somewhere I won’t be found.
With one last glance, I turn around and walk out of the door. I type in the alarm code and lock the door, bringing two of the trash bags toward the dumpster right behind the restaurant.
Long Grove is a safe town. It’s partially why I stuck around for as long as I have. The crime rate is low, and the town itself has that Hallmark aura, which the residents seem to love. Personally, except for a few beautiful sightings, it’s nothing special, but safety is why I stayed.
The chilly night of an early September night greets me.
I forgot to take a sweater for the evening, so it means I'm definitely freezing until I get home.
And there it is again.
The eerie sensation that sends chills down my spine, and it’s not because of the cold evening. My skin tingles as I breathe in more, seeming to smell the air that fills my lungs.
With great intensity, I listen, my ears perked.
Goosebumps tug on my skin, the smallest hairs on my back standing up straight. A piercing jab goes straight into my gut as I continue walking, ignoring the chills that creep up my neck.
An ominous taste is on my tongue.
Something is going to happen soon.
Something I’m certainly unprepared for.
The streetlight next to me flickers as if to warn me of the danger I’ll find myself in. I glance at my wristwatch, tapping my foot against the pavement impatiently, waiting for my bus to arrive.
Five more minutes, Blair. Five more minutes.
Impatiently, I continue to tap my foot against the concrete, the slightest sound echoing into the dark night. The starry sky above me seems to mock me with the light it provides, knowing that my mind is anything but a light place.
My ears perk at the sound of leaves swaying with the wind. I hug myself to provide more warmth, though I stopped feeling cold a while ago. It’s a bone-chilling sensation as fear grips my heart; a cold lump of dread sits in my stomach with no indication of leaving anytime soon.
Too enchanted in my deep, dark thoughts, and I almost miss the bus. It stops right in front of me, and a sigh of relief slips past my lips, though my feet need a little more encouragement to move from the spot.
Carefully, I walk into the bus, pay for the ride, and walk toward the back.
That’s when my movements come to a stop.
It’s just after eleven in the evening, and it’s the last bus of the day. Aside from Layla, who takes the bus with me oftentimes, and a couple of high schoolers who are out this late, it’s mainly vacant.
The bus driver told me once he begged for this line to be cut. Not many people need transportation at this hour, as it’s not exactly a party town, though his pleas were ignored.
My usual spot is in the far back, second seat on the left by the window.
Ironically enough, the first time I took the bus, it was packed with people, and the spot was the only one available. I’m a creature of habit, and each time I work the night shift, I sit in the same spot.
Until now.
There’s a man sitting there.
He’s dressed in all black. A black hoodie with the hood covering his face, a black pair of sweatpants that match the top of his outfit, and some black shoes. In fact, the only reason I’m convinced he’s not a fragment of my imagination or a devil in disguise is because his hair peeks through the hood.
White hair.
His head hangs low, as though he isn’t interested in his surroundings.
More importantly, the eerie feeling from the bus station returns, this time hitting me harder.
My stomach clenches in vigor, and I can’t quite understand if I like it or not.
As if sensing that someone is staring at him, he glances up, but my efforts to see his face are futile. I can’t see anything past the white hair and the dark hood.
Does he have a mask on?
If yes, why?
My heart pounds against my rib cage, echoing in my ears loudly. My breathing is shallow, and no matter how many times I cussed at the voices for overconsuming my mind, I wish they would appear right about now.
They don’t.
It’s as silent as ever as I coerce myself to draw eyes off him and force them onto the dirty floor of the bus.
I’ve seen my fair share of odd things, yet none of them stick out to me like the stranger on the bus at eleven in the night, sitting in the spot I’d been reserving for myself for the past three years. From drunk people vomiting on me to men old enough to be my father trying to sleep with me – I’ve seen it all.
Yet this man piques my interest.
The moment I sit down right in front of him, I can feel that stare on the back of my head. It causes me to sit straight and swallow a lump that forms in my throat. It’s not smart, but at the moment, I can’t force myself to move.
A scent hits my nose, and I’m paralyzed.
A deep, rich whiskey of the highest quality with a mix of leather.
That’s the only way I can even begin to describe the scent that radiates off him, though mysterious would fit, too.
An enigma that has me enthralled to even realize that twenty minutes have passed since I sat down, and I have reached my destination, which is the last stop.
However, as soon as I get off the bus, I notice that he remains in his seat, unmoving, unwavering.
Instead, his eyes lock with mine through the window as the bus speeds off into the night. The moment he's out of sight, I find myself struggling to breathe, as if I have to learn how to function all over again.
“What the fuck was that?”