I pulled my jacket tightly around me, but the shivering continued. Because I was focused on keeping warm, my pace slowed. Behind me, I heard the sound of a footstep. The chill deepened. Knowing it made me look silly or overly anxious, I turned. The sidewalk stretched behind me, empty.
I walked a little faster now, holding my bag to my side so it didn’t slap against my thigh.
A moment later, I heard more footsteps, keeping the same rhythm as mine. It wasn’t as if they were clicking heels or loud thuds, just the unmistakable whisper of neoprene soles on concrete. I couldn’t help it. I glanced over my shoulder.
Just as I did, I saw a man turn and walk quickly back the way I’d just come.
Had he been following me? He had to be. He hadn’t been there a moment earlier, and as soon as I turned, he scurried away.
I walked even faster now, only a block or so from Fresh Barons. I felt like running, but my stylish lace-up ankle boots weren’t meant for that, and I definitely didn’t want to go crashing to the ground, wrecking my knees or worse.
Now, I turned every few steps, convinced he was still there. The street remained empty. I forced myself to walk ten steps, counting carefully, before I allowed myself to turn for another look.
And there he was— a man keeping well back this time. In the darkness and with the distance, it was impossible to guess his age. But he was definitely following. The thought sent a spike of fear through my body. Of course, my adopted hometown was safe. Of course, we had a dedicated and alert police force, but none of them were around right then. If I stopped to make an emergency call, the man might be on me before I could get my phone out of my bag.
I felt a whimper in the back of my throat. I hated feeling weak, hated feeling as if someone had power over me like this. What was he doing? If he did plan to attack me, why hadn’t he? Not that I wished that on myself; I just didn’t understand. I was scared. He was staying well back but keeping perfect pace with me.
I started a slow jog, and as I’d expected with those shoes, I immediately felt a pinch in my ankle as my foot landed wrong. I was furious at myself for my uncontrolled fear. This was absolutely a safe community. The sun would be up soon. Even before then, people would be coming out of their houses to leave for work, restaurant and shop owners like me ready to go in the early morning, heading for their place of business, getting a jump on the day.
Finally, the welcoming windows, the night security lights, and the sign for Fresh Barons were in sight. I hurried toward the store like I was racing to an oasis. When I reached the main doors, I turned to look and saw the man. He stood at the opposite end of the street, watching me. I continued to look at him until finally, after what seemed like minutes, but was probably a few seconds, he turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner.
I shoved my key into the lock and opened the door. I stepped inside, closed it, and locked it behind me. I leaned against the door, breathing heavily. I thought about texting Jerry to tell him what happened, but he was surely still asleep, and now that I was safely inside, it all seemed a bit silly.
Now that I was locked inside the store, I asked myself—why on earth hadn’t I just asked him what he wanted?
Chapter 5
It was mid-morning when I left my office and went out to walk the aisles of the store. I like to do this to see how things are going, picking up on the vibe. You can feel the mood of a crowd of people. I really believe this. And I always sensed it when something wasn’t right—if the stockers had been late in replenishing produce or we were understaffed at checkout.
Eating organic food is part of an entire lifestyle, and part of that lifestyle is a day-to-day existence that incorporates as much tranquility as is possible in this world. Shopping for what we put into our bodies should be done with care and pleasure, even joy. It’s a lot to ask of a mom with three children clamoring for snacks or a man whose wife doesn’t like natural food and he’s trying to figure out how to sneak it into the meals he prepares, but I believe it’s possible.
This morning, the mood was good.
Then I saw Delaware Quincy.
She was standing in the wine aisle, studying the labels on exclusive offerings from local wineries, from wineries that strive for sustainability.
As if she had some radar for someone she could sweep into her web of finicky decision-making, she turned the minute I passed by at the end of the aisle.
“Alexis! Come here.”
Her tone and her sense of entitlement grated on me, but customers…right? I walked toward her, conscious of my lips forming a smile I didn’t quite feel.
“Is this Pinot Noir any good?”
She held a bottle toward me.
“I think they’re all good. And how are you today?”
“Fine. Does that mean you’ve tasted every single wine here?” She swept her arm past the shelves, the bottle clutched in her hand.
I suppressed an urge to grab it away from her before it smashed against the metal edge of a shelf. “Actually, yes, I have.” I heard a sound behind me and turned to look, conscious that I was still jumpy from earlier that morning.
“Well, is this one better? It’s five dollars more.”
I turned back. “I would describe it as a bit smoother. But you know, wine preferences are very personal.”
“If I don’t like
