Chapter 19 Penny #2
Inside, I check my PO box first. I don’t get a lot of snail mail since most of my business is conducted online, but there seems to always be a stack of junk mail and catalogs I never subscribed to, so I like to keep it cleared out.
I shove all the randomness into my bag, keeping my shipping boxes where I can obsessively confirm they’re still there every two-point-three seconds. And yes, I’m counting.
One-and-a, two-and-a, check. One-and-a, two-and-a, check.
Getting in line to ship my packages, I start going through the envelopes while keeping my bag clutched to my front. I’ve got a nifty sorting system happening, with the stuff to be opened to the back of the boxes and the stuff already opened to the front.
Slowly, I one-step my way closer to the front of the line.
Until, nose down in my bag, I start to hear grumbles of annoyance in front of me. “Back of the line, buddy!”
I glance up to see what the fuss is about and quickly jerk my face back down to my bag.
It can’t be. There’s no way they’re here.
It’s the two guys Griffin said were following me. What are the chances they’re at the post office on a Saturday at noon? Since they have no envelopes or boxes in their hands, slim to none.
“One second. I have a question,” one of the guys barks at the woman I’m guessing told him to wait in line like everyone else is doing.
“And I need to mail this before my morning MiraLAX kicks in. Back of the line,” she says, not conceding an inch.
My heart starts racing in my chest as fear trickles through my veins.
I really thought Griffin was overreacting and it truly was a coincidence that those guys had been at Yesteryear and then near Johnny K’s.
It’s a big city, but also people tend to stick to the relatively small portion that’s closest to their homes.
Or at least I do, and I figure that’s the same for most people.
Plus, we didn’t see them go into Johnny K’s.
They might’ve been shopping at any number of stores on that block, or live in one of the apartments above the stores, or been out for a stroll to take advantage of the good weather.
Any number of possibilities that have nothing to do with Griffin’s bad feeling about them.
But a third appearance? Is that beyond the scope of coincidental? It feels like it might be.
Keeping my face down, I peek through my hair, and see that one guy is talking to Ms. MiraLAX. The other guy is talking to the post office clerk. “I need to find out the home address of someone who has a PO box here. How do I do that?”
“You don’t,” the clerk answers, her voice monotone with a complete lack of concern about his question or the fact that he cut in line, which Ms. MiraLAX is still complaining about. “Next!”
“It’s your turn,” Ms. MiraLAX tells the man in front of her, who had been impatiently toe tapping while waiting for his chance at the counter but is now standing back like he’s not in such a hurry after all.
I can understand why. The two guys are significantly larger and more intimidating up close and personal, especially now that I think they might actually be following me.
But me? Why me? I’m nobody. Yeah, the ring is a one-of-a-kind piece, but I already told them it’s unavailable. That should be that.
“Look it up. It’s box 4862,” the guy tells the clerk, taking away any residual doubt I may have still had. Because PO box 4862 belongs to PLDesigns, a.k.a. me, and is what’s listed on my website.
I have to get out of here.
I duck my head again, nearly shoving it into my bag, as I turn around. “Excuse me,” I whisper to the lady behind me as I get out of line. I force my feet to walk despite a very strong urge to sprint. It feels like one of those National Geographic documentary moments . . .
Though the faster female lions are known as the primary hunters, males are better suited for ambushing larger prey, and these hungry lions have stalked this guileless prey for days across prairie flatlands and through tough terrain, their patience growing weary with every passing day.
Until now, finally . . . they’re ready to pounce.
Sensing an invisible danger, the prey reacts instinctually, bolting away.
The lions give chase, wearing the prey out as they direct it toward a lone tree.
The prey foolishly takes the bait, seeing the tree as a safe reprieve and climbing as high as possible to find cover.
Not realizing that was the lion’s plan all along, the prey is now trapped.
There’s no way out. The lions simply have to wait out the doomed prey.
I can’t let myself be stuck in a tree.
I fight off the fear building in my gut and climbing my throat, telling myself . . . Don’t run. Don’t act suspicious. Don’t draw attention. Don’t. Run.
So, of course, as soon as I’m through the door, I sprint for my car. It’s instinct. I can’t help it. As I cross the parking lot, I’m scrambling in my bag for my keys. Once I find them, I press the unlock button over and over like that’ll make it extra-unlocked for me to jump right in.
I swing the car door open and climb in, but because it’s me, of course I bang my head on the doorframe. Pained tears instantly spring to my eyes. “Owwww!” I hiss, rubbing the tender spot on the side of my head with one hand and double-locking the doors with the other.
But I made it out alive, and thankfully un-chased by big, scary guys who are apparently looking for me. And trying to find out my home address.
Oh my God! I have to get home.
But some sanity reigns, plus I’m kinda seeing double from the head bang, and instead of peeling out of the lot on two wheels and laying down a line of rubber, I slouch down low in my seat.
Heart still pounding and my breath fogging up the windows, I wait for the guys to come out.
I need to see their faces. Not because I haven’t memorized them at this point but because I need to see if they look happy or disappointed.
That’ll tell me if they know where I live.
I pray the post office’s lack of give-a-shit served me well this time and the clerk refused to be bothered into looking up my address, which I was assured was entirely private since that’s the whole point of a PO box. But I don’t know if I trust their process that much.
I’m staring fixated at the door, waiting, and when it finally swings open, the two guys come out, their faces thunderous as they yell at each other. I can’t hear them, but I can read the situation well enough to know one thing for sure . . . they didn’t get my address. Yet.
It’s a huge relief. But if they went this far, what else will they do in search of this ring? I swear it really must be cursed. And unfortunately, I think the curse has extended to include me.