Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
A cross, to be specific.
I stop solving and take a breath, a sinking feeling suddenly flooding through my body.
What is going on here?
Do I have a stalker?
As soon as this idea hits my brain, I know it’s true.
I look around. There’s no one in here. It’s Monday. They’re always slow. So there’s just the echo of the teenagers in some far corner of the back storeroom to break the silence and nothing else.
Who would be stalking me though?
Immediately I rack my brain trying to think if anyone has been paying me more attention than usual. Or if someone new has popped into my life all of a sudden.
My heart actually thumps when Amon Parrish’s face pops into my head.
No.
Could it be?
But why?
No.
Except he is the only new person in my life. Period. There is no alternative possibility. And hasn’t he kinda been not-so-secretly stalking me? When I came out of the Busybody last week, there he was. When I came out of my house on Friday night, there he was. Sure, he was stuck in traffic, but what are the odds of that? He asked me to go bowling with him, and I said no, of course. Then on Saturday he came into the Revival, interrupting everything, and asked me about why I was telling him no. And today he just happened to wander in to the Revenant diner on the one morning a week when I work there?
Suddenly, my cheeks are hot with anger and I go for my phone, ready to press his contact and give him a piece of my mind. If he wants to court me and ask me out, that’s fine. But this… this stalking and letter-writing campaign is a tick too much. It’s not right. Especially coming from a man like Amon Parrish, who has been all over the world for the past dozen years doing God knows what. Something dangerous, that’s for sure. And something illegal, since everyone knows about those congressional hearings.
It’s wrong, and it’s scary, and I am angry.
But calling him up and yelling at him because I’ve figured it out might just be playing right into his hands. He’s trying to get my attention, obviously. And if I give it to him, then he wins. It doesn’t matter if I’m angry, or happy, or scared. The emotion is beside the point.
A man who acts this way just wants to be noticed. He doesn’t care how he gets that attention. It’s sick. And I’m actually a little bit shocked that Amon Parrish has turned out this way.
I spend the rest of the afternoon absently shuffling through photographs and making new entries in Lowyn’s catalogs, but I’m watching the clock the entire time. And at five-thirty I tell the teenagers to show me what they’ve done. They’ve been busy all afternoon, which is a good thing for me because my head is filled with questions and I don’t actually have the capacity to function outside my own thoughts.
But the day is over now, the girls did a good job arranging things, the storeroom has been cleared out a bit, and the boys are proud as punch that they scored some points today and all four of them are meeting up at the ice cream shop on the corner of Walnut and Fourth.
Good for them. I smile, wave, and lock up after they’ve gone.
Then I leave by the back door, lock up, and drive home.
Since I’ve had several days in a row filled with nothing but disappointing mom moments when it comes to my son, I don’t expect him to be there. I expect the house to be empty, and for the phone to ring, and for him to tell me he’s got such-and-such plans that do not involve his mother.
But I am very pleasantly surprised to not only find him home, but waiting on me with dinner. It makes me so happy I want to cry. But I don’t.
Instead, I beam a smile and say, “What’s all this?”
Cross is also smiling. “Well, I’ve been kind of ignoring you. And I saw the leftover spaghetti when I got home yesterday, so I felt bad for missing dinner.”
I touch my hand to his cheek, wondering how he got so big. “Oh, you don’t have to feel bad, Cross. Everyone knows that spaghetti is better two days left over than it is served fresh.”
“I know. So that’s what we’re having tonight. You don’t have to cook. You don’t have to do anything but sit down. I even picked up fresh bread from the bakery.”
My son. The angel. The most perfect thing ever to grace this world.
I forget all about Amon Parrish and his stalker business and instead, I count my blessings.
The next morning is a Bishop day. Which always puts me in a good mood because I just love my little pied-à-terre, and choosing a fancy dress to wear on Tuesdays and Wednesdays might not be the highlight of my week, but it runs close.