attack had been the first sign of anything unusual. As horrible as the attack had been, it was easy to write it off as an isolated incident. Nothing else had happened in Whitfield. Right? Agitated, I grabbed a lighter and went to check the tea lights along the windowsill.
It was full night now. I could see through the window to the park. The tea lights reflected dim images of the coffee shop’s interior against the glass so that I stared into a strangely double-layered world. The square was brightly lit as always, dotted with luminous trees and the colorful fountain. The night businesses were every bit as busy as their daytime counterparts. But did people seem a little more hurried than usual? No one just stood and talked, or strolled through the park.
I watched through the glass as the last of our customers got up to leave. Business had been brisk but no one really lingered. The Coffee Shop was usually pretty full of people who’d come for the music, to meet up, or just read books. But tonight everyone seemed to be all business; they drank their coffee and left. It was so easy to focus on bad things happening elsewhere, in bigger cities like Atlanta and Nashville. Had I been ignoring more subtle signs right under my own nose?
“You missed a couple,” Erik said right in my ear. I jumped.
“Don’t do that!” My heart raced. I shoved my hands in my pockets as soon as I felt them tingle. “Seriously. You have no idea.”
“Wow,” he said, vaulting up to sit on the counter. “Logan must have really tortured you as a child. You’re jumpy.”
“Something like that,” I exhaled, my fists still clenched. “Want a drink?” I darted around him and pulled a Coke from the deepest depths of the refrigerator, hoping the cold would have some effect on my prickling hands.
“Sure,” he said, sounding contrite. I took longer than I had to, trying to calm myself down. When I emerged, he had made his way down the entire length of tea lights for me, relighting the few that had sputtered out. “Markov really loves his candles.”
“Mrs. Alice does too. They’re pretty though.”
“I guess.” He dropped into my boss’s usual chair by the unlit fireplace. “Sorry I scared you. Really.”
I shrugged, cradling my Coke. “It’s not your fault I’m jumpy. It’s in the air, I guess.”
He scanned the empty room. “Yeah, I noticed. It’s like this everywhere, the whole town. Like a storm’s about to break, or something.”
Guilt pricked me. I hadn’t noticed. I’d been wrapped up in my own drama, or reading about other cities. Which reminded me. As a musician, Erik was one of the few residents who left town on a regular basis. For whatever reason, the rest of us tended to stick pretty close to home. I wondered if he’d noticed anything unusual while traveling. “Hey Erik.” I tried to strike a balance between interested, but not too interested. “Who are you playing with these days? Anybody outside of Whitfield?”
If I’d been trying to play it casual, I failed. I’d suddenly drawn his attention like a bird of prey, and I had no idea why. He leaned in so close I could see each individual worry line on his forehead. “Actually, yeah, I am. And not because I want to, exactly. I’ve been filling in for a buddy of mine who can’t…” Erik stopped abruptly. A gold Zippo appeared in his hand, dancing between his fingers as he played with the flame.
Erik was my brother’s age. To us younger kids, he’d always seemed just a little tougher, carried just a little more cool, than the average Whitfielder. As he rolled open flame across guitar-callused fingers, there was no way I was going to tell him to stop playing with fire. He watched me, assessing. “You have really unusual eyes,” he said at last.
“Points for being observant,” I shot back, unsure of how else to respond.
He snorted and leaned in even closer, pitching his voice low. “So my friend’s band. I’ve played with them before,
It was full night now. I could see through the window to the park. The tea lights reflected dim images of the coffee shop’s interior against the glass so that I stared into a strangely double-layered world. The square was brightly lit as always, dotted with luminous trees and the colorful fountain. The night businesses were every bit as busy as their daytime counterparts. But did people seem a little more hurried than usual? No one just stood and talked, or strolled through the park.
I watched through the glass as the last of our customers got up to leave. Business had been brisk but no one really lingered. The Coffee Shop was usually pretty full of people who’d come for the music, to meet up, or just read books. But tonight everyone seemed to be all business; they drank their coffee and left. It was so easy to focus on bad things happening elsewhere, in bigger cities like Atlanta and Nashville. Had I been ignoring more subtle signs right under my own nose?
“You missed a couple,” Erik said right in my ear. I jumped.
“Don’t do that!” My heart raced. I shoved my hands in my pockets as soon as I felt them tingle. “Seriously. You have no idea.”
“Wow,” he said, vaulting up to sit on the counter. “Logan must have really tortured you as a child. You’re jumpy.”
“Something like that,” I exhaled, my fists still clenched. “Want a drink?” I darted around him and pulled a Coke from the deepest depths of the refrigerator, hoping the cold would have some effect on my prickling hands.
“Sure,” he said, sounding contrite. I took longer than I had to, trying to calm myself down. When I emerged, he had made his way down the entire length of tea lights for me, relighting the few that had sputtered out. “Markov really loves his candles.”
“Mrs. Alice does too. They’re pretty though.”
“I guess.” He dropped into my boss’s usual chair by the unlit fireplace. “Sorry I scared you. Really.”
I shrugged, cradling my Coke. “It’s not your fault I’m jumpy. It’s in the air, I guess.”
He scanned the empty room. “Yeah, I noticed. It’s like this everywhere, the whole town. Like a storm’s about to break, or something.”
Guilt pricked me. I hadn’t noticed. I’d been wrapped up in my own drama, or reading about other cities. Which reminded me. As a musician, Erik was one of the few residents who left town on a regular basis. For whatever reason, the rest of us tended to stick pretty close to home. I wondered if he’d noticed anything unusual while traveling. “Hey Erik.” I tried to strike a balance between interested, but not too interested. “Who are you playing with these days? Anybody outside of Whitfield?”
If I’d been trying to play it casual, I failed. I’d suddenly drawn his attention like a bird of prey, and I had no idea why. He leaned in so close I could see each individual worry line on his forehead. “Actually, yeah, I am. And not because I want to, exactly. I’ve been filling in for a buddy of mine who can’t…” Erik stopped abruptly. A gold Zippo appeared in his hand, dancing between his fingers as he played with the flame.
Erik was my brother’s age. To us younger kids, he’d always seemed just a little tougher, carried just a little more cool, than the average Whitfielder. As he rolled open flame across guitar-callused fingers, there was no way I was going to tell him to stop playing with fire. He watched me, assessing. “You have really unusual eyes,” he said at last.
“Points for being observant,” I shot back, unsure of how else to respond.
He snorted and leaned in even closer, pitching his voice low. “So my friend’s band. I’ve played with them before,
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