Page 67 of Every Step She Takes

“I’m afraid this is counterfeit, ma’am.”

“What? I got it from a bank machine. It can’t–” I bite off the protest. “Never mind. Take this one, and I’ll sort it with the bank.”

I extend a second twenty.

He shakes his head. “I can’t do that. Company policy. Let me take this into the office and scan it to be sure. Please wait here.”

I stare at his retreating back, feeling as if I’ve stumbled into a comedy skit. Are there hidden cameras? I can see the headline now.Fugitive Accidentally Caught During…

I stop. This manager is stalling me. Actively and clumsily stalling me with what seems like a bad comedy routine, so over-the-top that it can’t possibly be real.

It isn’t real.

I’ve been recognized.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The manager has recognized me. That’s why he came up front and took over. That’s why he’s stalling and dragging this out. He recognized me and called the police, and they’re on their way.

Are you serious, Lucy? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?

Yep, but it’s more believable than his screw-up-manager act. I open my mouth to call after him and tell him to forget it. Then I realize, if I’m right, that’s a dead giveaway.

I exhale a dramatic sigh and look at my phone. The chat app is still open with PCTracy waiting.

LlamaGirl:I’m at the deli counter. I think I’ve been made.

There’s a long pause.

LlamaGirl:The manager took over my order. He kept stalling. Now he took my money to “check” it in the back, saying it’s counterfeit.

PCTracy:Get out.

LlamaGirl:It’s packed, and they all just heard him say my bill was fake.

A pause. I start to lower the phone, ready to solve this on my own. Then he responds.

PCTracy:Put money on the counter. Fives, a ten, something small that’ll cover it. No one counterfeits those.

PCTracy:Then move to the side. Tell the person behind you that you’re getting out of the way so they can be served.

PCTracy:If it’s enough of a crowd, slide toward any rear hall or exit.

I put down a ten and mutter, “Maybe he’ll take this.” Then I turn to the woman behind me and do as PCTracy said. She nods, obviously relieved to finally reach the counter.

As I slip to the side, someone says, “Hey, wait, didn’t she just pass a fake bill?”

“No, asshole,” a man says. “That guy’s screwing her around. Her money’s right here. She’s letting us get our damn lunches.”

I join the crowd where the sandwiches arrive. I stand in one spot, and then I pretend to realize I’m in someone’s way and move closer to the back wall. I keep that up. No one here is paying attention – these people are too far from the front cash to have overheard the counterfeit issue.

There’s a back hall. When I peek into its shadowy depths, a woman says, “Yep, that’s the restroom. Not sure I’d use it, though.” She winks at me.

I make a face. “Desperate times…”

She chuckles as I slip into the rear hall. At the restroom door, I glance back. No one’s watching. Two more steps, and I push open the exit and step out, exhaling as the door shuts behind me.

A delivery truck turns into the service lane, taking up the whole width of it. The driver motions, as if to say, “Wherever you came from, lady, go back inside.”