dour produce seller who was currently shouting and tossing her hands about behind us, complaining loudly to no one in particular about how we had ruined her. Ruined her.
I knew I hadn’t started the melee. But I had my fears that Timmy had somehow been involved.
“Did you see what happened?” I asked the woman as she put Timmy down and he toddled to me. I scooped him up and held him in my arms.
She nodded, her dark curls bouncing as she urged me closer, her eyes on the produce lady. I expected her to tell me that Timmy had pulled out a single piece from the bottom. The keystone fruit upon which all the other fruits depended.
What I didn’t expect was the hand on my shoulder as she faced me and leaned in close, or the press of a knife to Timmy’s soft neck as she sandwiched his body between us. The icy chill of fear shot through me, and I tightened my grip on the carrot and forced myself not to move. Not to do anything that might upset her.
“Protect it,” she whispered, leaning even closer so her mouth was near my ear.
“Get the knife away from him, or I swear I will end you.”
“You’ll do nothing to me while your child is at risk,” she said, her voice so low I could barely hear it over Timmy’s whimpers. “But it is not me who is your enemy. I am nothing. Protect it with your life, because if the lock is opened, there will be no lives left to protect.”
With astonishing swiftness, she shifted the knife, moving it from Timmy’s neck to mine. We locked eyes, and I caught the minty scent of too much mouthwash. Then she turned, darted into the crowd, and was gone.
I dropped the carrot and clutched my son even tighter against my chest. In my arms, Timmy was still crying. Not because of the danger—I doubt he even knew there’d been a danger—but because of the noise and the crowd and the fact that everything was just too damn much.
I counted to five, allowing myself only that brief time to be horrified. Then I kissed his head and shifted him to my hip. As I did, I saw the produce lady looking at me, her brow knit in concern. I didn’t know if she’d seen the knife. But I knew she could tell I was scared.
Behind her, I saw the girl again. The one who looked like Allie. She stood on the far side of the produce stand, a stack of cantaloupe piled in front of her. She was staring right at me, not with the baffled expression of a shocked witness, but with the understanding countenance of someone who knew exactly what was going on.
Allie. Stuart .
I clasped Timmy tight and bolted toward the exit, then stopped and doubled back. I’d forgotten the umbrella stroller.
I had no idea if demons had attacked Stuart and Allie, too. But I did know my husband. If they’d been ambushed, Stuart was going to be pissed, but he’d probably forgive an abandoned stroller. But if I left the stroller behind and all was well?
How the heck was I supposed to explain that?
“Mom!” Allie squealed the second I burst through the doors of the boutique. But it wasn’t terror that put that high pitch in her voice. It was lust.
Not for a boy. Not even for a dessert.
This was clothes lust.
She twisted and turned in front of a trifold mirror, trying to see the jacket from all angles. “Isn’t it awesome? And it’s just like yours.” She thrust out her arm to reveal a cuff that looked like it hung loose, but had a hidden interior cuff that clung to her wrist. The idea was to block the weather. I used it as part of a mechanism I’d hooked up for delivering a spring-loaded stiletto.
Stuart quirked a brow. “Practical clothing for the fashionable dem—”
“Go to Daddy,” I said quickly, releasing a squirming Timmy and giving his bottom a farewell pat.
“Sorry,” Stuart said, his glance darting quickly to the slender woman sorting inventory behind the nearby counter. “I am the very epitome of discretion.”
“So can I get it?” Allie asked. As far as I could tell, she’d been completely oblivious to my
I knew I hadn’t started the melee. But I had my fears that Timmy had somehow been involved.
“Did you see what happened?” I asked the woman as she put Timmy down and he toddled to me. I scooped him up and held him in my arms.
She nodded, her dark curls bouncing as she urged me closer, her eyes on the produce lady. I expected her to tell me that Timmy had pulled out a single piece from the bottom. The keystone fruit upon which all the other fruits depended.
What I didn’t expect was the hand on my shoulder as she faced me and leaned in close, or the press of a knife to Timmy’s soft neck as she sandwiched his body between us. The icy chill of fear shot through me, and I tightened my grip on the carrot and forced myself not to move. Not to do anything that might upset her.
“Protect it,” she whispered, leaning even closer so her mouth was near my ear.
“Get the knife away from him, or I swear I will end you.”
“You’ll do nothing to me while your child is at risk,” she said, her voice so low I could barely hear it over Timmy’s whimpers. “But it is not me who is your enemy. I am nothing. Protect it with your life, because if the lock is opened, there will be no lives left to protect.”
With astonishing swiftness, she shifted the knife, moving it from Timmy’s neck to mine. We locked eyes, and I caught the minty scent of too much mouthwash. Then she turned, darted into the crowd, and was gone.
I dropped the carrot and clutched my son even tighter against my chest. In my arms, Timmy was still crying. Not because of the danger—I doubt he even knew there’d been a danger—but because of the noise and the crowd and the fact that everything was just too damn much.
I counted to five, allowing myself only that brief time to be horrified. Then I kissed his head and shifted him to my hip. As I did, I saw the produce lady looking at me, her brow knit in concern. I didn’t know if she’d seen the knife. But I knew she could tell I was scared.
Behind her, I saw the girl again. The one who looked like Allie. She stood on the far side of the produce stand, a stack of cantaloupe piled in front of her. She was staring right at me, not with the baffled expression of a shocked witness, but with the understanding countenance of someone who knew exactly what was going on.
Allie. Stuart .
I clasped Timmy tight and bolted toward the exit, then stopped and doubled back. I’d forgotten the umbrella stroller.
I had no idea if demons had attacked Stuart and Allie, too. But I did know my husband. If they’d been ambushed, Stuart was going to be pissed, but he’d probably forgive an abandoned stroller. But if I left the stroller behind and all was well?
How the heck was I supposed to explain that?
“Mom!” Allie squealed the second I burst through the doors of the boutique. But it wasn’t terror that put that high pitch in her voice. It was lust.
Not for a boy. Not even for a dessert.
This was clothes lust.
She twisted and turned in front of a trifold mirror, trying to see the jacket from all angles. “Isn’t it awesome? And it’s just like yours.” She thrust out her arm to reveal a cuff that looked like it hung loose, but had a hidden interior cuff that clung to her wrist. The idea was to block the weather. I used it as part of a mechanism I’d hooked up for delivering a spring-loaded stiletto.
Stuart quirked a brow. “Practical clothing for the fashionable dem—”
“Go to Daddy,” I said quickly, releasing a squirming Timmy and giving his bottom a farewell pat.
“Sorry,” Stuart said, his glance darting quickly to the slender woman sorting inventory behind the nearby counter. “I am the very epitome of discretion.”
“So can I get it?” Allie asked. As far as I could tell, she’d been completely oblivious to my
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