Read Online The Chosen by Sharon Sala - Free Book Online Page B

the park, through the neighborhood, back to her apartment—and never looked back.
    It didn’t bother her that he’d recognized her. That happened to her all the time. But she’d seen him before; she just couldn’t remember where, and that did bother her.
    She was in the shower, and had just washed her hair and was lifting her face to the spray, when a flash of memory struck.
    The night she’d been down in the old part of town talking to that homeless woman—what was her name? Oh yes…Marjorie. There had been a man who’d crossed in front of her car in the rain. That was who the guy in the park reminded her of. But he surely wasn’t the same one. That would be more than coincidence.
    The weird thing about the man in the park was that he’d prayed for her, and she’d been looking for a street preacher. The one who called himself Sinner. And Sinner knew she was looking, because he’d called her and told her to leave him alone.
    She turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and stepped out onto the bath mat.
    Was it possible? Could the man from the rain and the man in the park be one and the same? And if they were, was he the Sinner? If he was the Sinner, then she felt decidedly uncomfortable. It was too much like being stalked.
    Finally she convinced herself that that was too big a coincidence to be true, that there were dozens of homeless men who were street preachers, and she dressed for work, forcibly putting the man out of her mind.
    Â 
    Jay stayed outside her building until she left for work. She didn’t see him, of course, because she wasn’t looking for him. He’d become skilled at blending into the background. However, it cost money to feed his disciples and it was going to cost even more when they were all in the fold, so it was time for him to get to work, too.
    Confident that his plan was progressing as intended, he walked back to the park to get his cab and, like January, began his day.
    Â 
    Bart Scofield was late for work. The alarm hadn’t gone off. The coffeepot quit before even an inch of coffee had run into the bottom of the pot. He’d spilled jam on his only clean shirt, and when he’d gone out to get in the car, it wouldn’t start. Frustrated and angry, he called a cab, then sat outside on the front porch to wait.
    He was on his cell phone when the cab arrived. He opened the door without looking at the cab driver, tossed his briefcase into the back seat and followed it inside. Once seated, he focused on the driver and frowned.
    Another foreigner. Didn’t citizens of the United States drive cabs anymore?
    â€œWhere to?” the driver asked.
    Bart’s frown lessened as he gave the address. The accent sounded American. Then he remembered the call he’d been on and put the phone back to his ear.
    â€œSorry…my cab just arrived,” he said, then grimaced and laughed. “Don’t ask. It’s already been one hell of a day and I haven’t even gotten to work yet.” He paused, listening to the caller on the other end of the line, then opened his briefcase and dug through some papers. “Yes…I have it right here. It’s going to be a go for the Carson project. The figures are right on.” He chuckled. “Yes, yes, I agree. I’ll be opting for that corner office with my name on the door.”
    He disconnected, slipped the phone into his briefcase and then leaned back. There was a fast-food restaurant up ahead. Remembering the coffee he’d missed, he leaned forward and spoke to the driver.
    â€œHey, buddy…pull into the drive-through at McDonald’s. I want some coffee.”
    â€œYes, sir,” the driver said, and turned on the blinkers before easing off the street into the parking lot. “What do you want?” he asked, as he stopped at the intercom.
    â€œCoffee…and a Danish,” Bart said, and tossed some bills into the front seat.
    A short time