Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Instead of smiling at me as she has done in the past, she frowns as if already annoyed that she'll have to deal with me again today.
"Good afternoon, ladies," I say as I place a can on the cart and approach them before they can walk away as if they didn't see me standing there. "Where's Alena?"
Several of the women look at each other rather than looking at me.
"Where. Is. Alena?" I ask again, breaking the question down even though I know the one looking right at me has spoken English before.
She mutters something in Russian before leading the group of women away.
Frustration grows thick inside of me, and I know how ridiculous that is. I don't even know Alena's last name, but I do know she has always been kind to me. She had been coming to this grocery store twice a week for months before suddenly she was no longer around. It concerns me.
I finish loading the cart and sweep up the floor where the display was before pushing the cart back to the storage room and stacking the cans on the shelf to clear the cart. We only have one stocking cart in this entire store, and I know someone will probably need it later.
I clock out and pull my apron off over my head, waving at Rachel who is checking out another elderly woman as I leave the store.
The heat hits me the second I walk outside. The weather in Vegas is temperamental at best. We wake up to temperatures in the fifties and sixties, and by midafternoon we're inching up to the upper eighties. It feels sweltering after being in the back room of the store.
I swipe my arm across my forehead, as I walk to my car.
I'll be the first person to tell people that I have no life. My one friend, Morgan, gives me a hard time about it all the time. I don't know why I skipped the whole go-out-and-party part of my early twenties, but now at twenty-six, I just have no desire to spend my hard-earned money on drinks and partying.
Morgan assures me that a short dress and a quick smile will have men falling at my feet to buy all the drinks I could ever consume, but I hate the expectations that men have once they've dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar top, as if a drink is worth a night rolling around in hotel sheets.
I bet that's what that guy would expect who came into the store last night, I think as I climb into my car and send up a quick prayer that the damn thing starts today. It gave me trouble this morning at home, but it finally cranked just as I was about to give up and grab the bus.
The engine turns over immediately, as if I've never had trouble getting it started before, and I have to smile, knowing just how silly it is that I'm grateful that something works when it's supposed to. I guess that's where I've gotten in life.
Instead of driving straight to the taco place because I know I have food to eat at home, I turn the opposite way out of the parking lot.
I don't know what prompts me to drive past the house those women went to the other day, but I do, finding the house devoid of any activity. They must've already dropped the groceries off. I bet that since they tend to shop at the same time when they come in, another group of women were taken to that warehouse.
Wanting answers to more questions than I'll ever have the chance to ask, I drive in that direction next, slowing down near the building and coming to a stop two blocks up.
It's not really possible to see much in the rearview mirror, so I move up the block and stop directly in front of the massive door.
There's no activity, no one coming out or going in. I don't even see the sleek SUV that I saw the other day. The place looks completely abandoned, and if it weren't for the camera up in the corner facing the door, I'd think it was just another decrepit area of Vegas that time has forgotten.
Instead of going home and minding my own damn business like an intelligent woman who has a healthy dose of self-preservation, I turn the ignition off, knowing that if there was ever a time my car wouldn't restart it would be now.
I pull in a deep breath as I climb out, making sure to lock the doors, even though I know that it won't stop someone from breaking in. This thought has me opening the car back up, hiding my purse under the seat, and relocking the doors.
The heat from all the concrete swirls around me, and I blame it entirely for the sheen of sweat that begins to dot my brows, because giving in to the echo of fear I'm feeling won't answer any of the questions I have.