Chapter 4 Sera
Sera
The Gas ‘N Go fluorescent lights make everyone look dead.
I’ve been standing behind this counter for exactly forty-seven minutes, and I’ve already counted the ceiling tiles, memorized the price of every candy bar in the display, and watched Rick scratch his balls when he thought I wasn’t looking.
My new uniform is a polyester disaster—a red polo shirt with the gas station logo over the left breast and khaki pants that make my ass look like two sad pancakes. At least I got to keep my combat boots. Small mercies.
I’m arranging lottery tickets in their display case when the bell over the door chimes. A gust of autumn air sweeps in, ruffling all the Missing Persons flyers on the bulletin board and carrying with it the scent of something sharp. Cologne.
I know that scent.
Every cell in my body freezes before I even look up. My fingers go numb on the scratch-offs. For a second, I’m somewhere else—another place, another woman, another life that ended with pain and silence.
Then I’m back, and I force myself to turn.
He’s here. Vincent Harrow. Sheriff of this fucking city.
He stands just inside the doorway, all six feet of him in his crisp, tan uniform.
The badge on his chest catches the horrible lighting, winking at me like we share a secret.
His dark hair is cut military-short at the sides but longer on top, just starting to gray at the temples.
He looks distinguished, trustworthy, like the perfect lawman.
I know better.
Rick emerges from the storage room, wiping his hands on a dirty towel. “Hey, Sheriff! How’s it going today?”
“Can’t complain,” Vincent says.
His voice is exactly as I remember it, smooth and low, with a hint of gravel that makes people lean in closer to catch his words.
I don’t move. I barely breathe. Part of me expected him to recognize me instantly—to see through my several dozen extra pounds, my dyed hair, my dramatic makeup, my carefully constructed new identity. But his gaze slides over me like I’m just another fixture in the store.
Good. That’s good. I need the element of surprise.
But god, it stings. The things he did to me with those hands, the weeks we sat across from each other when we both took the stand, when I rehashed the terrible details over and over, when he lied, when his friends lied for him, the godawful cross examination, and he doesn’t even recognize me.
I think I may vomit.
I think I may kill him right fucking now.
He approaches the counter, and Rick bustles over.
“This is Sera, our new girl,” Rick says, standing too close to me, his elbow brushing mine. “Sera, this is Sheriff Harrow. Best lawman in the state, if you ask me.”
Vincent nods, hardly sparing me a glance as he digs out his wallet. “Welcome.”
I smile, keeping my lips pressed together while his blood rains down the inside of my mind.
“Sera just moved into the old Milligan place on Lakeview,” Rick adds, and I want to stab him in the balls for volunteering that information.
“Quite a fixer-upper,” Vincent says, sounding bored now.
I shrug. “I find broken things much more revealing.”
“Mm. That house has a history,” he says.
“So do graveyards. At least the house pretends to be livable,” I say.
Something flickers across his face—not recognition, but interest. He looks at me properly for the first time, his gaze traveling from my face down to my hands, which I’ve flattened on the counter to keep them from trembling or gouging out his eyeballs.
“Just gas on pump four and a donut today,” he says finally, turning away from me to scan the store. “Glazed. And a receipt.”
Rick nudges me. “Go ahead. Ring him up.”
I move to the register like a woman in a dream, my body on autopilot. Rick retrieves a donut from the case and then stands too close, giving me instructions I don’t need.
“That’ll be $41.75,” I say.
Vincent hands me a credit card, our fingers brushing for a microsecond. Surprisingly, I feel nothing. No revulsion. No doom. Just skin against skin.
The register beeps as I punch in the sale. The receipt prints, and I tear it off, handing it to him with another closed-lip smile.
“Have a nice day,” I say, my voice steady.
Vincent tips his hat, the gesture so “Kansas sheriff” it borders on parody. “You too, Ms. Vale.”
I freeze. Rick never told him my faux last name.
Then I remember—it must be on my nametag. I glance down. Sure enough, SERA VALE is printed in blocky letters.
He turns and walks out, donut bag in hand, back straight, shoulders squared. Through the window, I watch him cross to his patrol car.
I breathe again, a shuddering exhale that makes Rick glance at me.
“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just a guided tour through my personal hell.”
“What?” Rick says on his way to the back room.
The bell chimes again, and I turn toward the door.
The man who enters is nothing like Vincent. Where Vincent is clean-cut, this man is rugged. Where Vincent is composed, this man is kinetic, with energy pouring off him in almost visible waves. He fills the small store with his presence, a grin spreading across his face when he spots me.
He’s tall and huge, the kind of veiny, muscular build that comes from needles full of juice and hours at the gym. His blond hair is tousled, falling across his forehead in a way that should look messy but somehow works. Stubble darkens his jaw, and there’s a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
But it’s his eyes that catch me, so blue and bright and intense that they snag my breaths. The kind of eyes that see too much.
He strides directly to the counter, still grinning. No pretense of browsing. No snatching up a coffee cup or a candy bar on his way. It’s like he’s not here to buy anything.
He’s here for me.
“Ach, hello there, bonnie lass,” he says, and I catch a thick accent. Scottish, maybe? “What a pleasant surprise.”
I shift into customer-service mode, though something about him puts me on edge. “Can I help you?”
“Aye.” He leans against the counter, studying my nametag. “Sera. Dead braw name, that.”
“Okay…” I have no idea what he’s saying.
“I’m James.” He extends a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, I shake it. His grip is firm, his palm calloused. “James MacDonald.”
“Okay…” I say again, pulling my hand back when he holds on a beat too long.
Rick emerges from the stockroom with a huge cardboard box of tampons, eyeing James with mild irritation. “You buying something today, or just harassing my new employee?”
James’s smile never falters. “Cannae I do both?”
Rick snorts and disappears into the back again. James continues to stare at me with undisguised interest.
“You’re new in town,” he states rather than asks. When I raise an eyebrow, he adds, “Wee city. News travels.”
“How…delightful.”
James leans in closer, lowering his voice. “I didnae expect ye to smile like that.”
Something inside me locks up, a gear grinding to a halt. “What?”
“Like you’re wearing it rather than feeling it.” His gaze is too penetrating, too knowing. “Your eyes dinnae match your mouth.”
I take a small step back. “What are you talking about?”
“Ye know,” he says easily. “And that’s all right. We all wear masks sometimes.”
I busy myself with straightening items on the counter. “Is there something I can do for you, or are you ready to go away now?”
“Aye, actually. I’d like to know if you’re working again tomorrow,” he says, a little softer.
I don’t answer, watching his face for some clue to his interest. Is he just a local creep hitting on the new girl? Or something else?
“My schedule’s not your business,” I say finally.
His smile widens. “Fair enough, hen. But if ye need any help with that house—repairs, clearing minging brush, exorcising demons—I’m your man. I can give ye my number.”
I have to sort through his thick accent to finally sort of understand him, but the casual mention of demons makes my skin crawl. Does he know something about the house? About the locked basement door? About the things that have happened there?
Before I can respond, he leans in again, so close I can smell him—soap and sawdust and something woodsy. “Would ye like my number, lassie?”
I’d rather shave my legs with a rusty cheese grater.
“Hell no.” I nod toward the door. “Now take the hint and leave.”
“Aye, okay.” James straightens up, winks, then turns and saunters toward the door.
Before he leaves, he calls over his shoulder, “See ye around, PrayWhileIMoan.”
My blood turns to ice.
PrayWhileIMoan. My username. Not here, but…before. On dark web message boards where I sought information about murder. In chat rooms where I learned how to disappear and reinvent myself.
A name only someone watching me online would know.