Page 8 of Love, Legacy, and Little Green Aliens

Xander’s senses swam as he lurched to his feet and grasped Gus’s desk to keep from toppling to the floor.

From somewhere in the shop, he heard a sharp knock. A woman called, “Hello? Gus?”

It took Xander three tries to find his voice.

“Call 911!”

“Call 911!”

A man backed through the swinging doors, swaying on his feet, one hand clutching his thick, dark hair. Was he drunk? A robber? No, he was too well-dressed for that, in stylish jeans, polished leather shoes, and a rain-damp jacket. He shook his head slowly, moving as if in a trance.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

He spun toward her, wan and wide-eyed, a grimace of sheer panic on his handsome face. “He’s…he’s… Oh, God.” Stumbling forward, he collided with a display of snow globes that tumbled to the floor. Oblivious to the wet, glittery mess, he pointed a trembling finger toward the back of the shop.

She started for the swinging doors, but he yelped, grabbed her arm, and yanked her hard against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart raced like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Don’t go back there,” he rasped. “It’s terrible.”

Oh God, was Gus murdered?

Moving slowly so as not to further startle him, she pulled her phone from her pocket. “Okay, I’m calling now.” While she waited for the call to connect, she inched him backward toward an old-fashioned park bench and eased him down beside a bedraggled life-size alien in a faded silver suit, a favorite photo spot for tourists. Afraid he might slide to the floor, she sat next to him, but their ET companion didn’t leave much room, so she had to squish against the man’s quaking body.

She hit Speaker on her phone.

“Pacific County Dispatch. What’s your emergency?” a bored-sounding woman intoned.

The man yanked the phone from her grip. “He’s dead. Gus is dead.”

“Take a breath, sir,” the dispatcher said. “What’s the address?”

He speared Hannah with a pleading look.

She pried her phone from his hand. “Souvenir Planet, at the south end of Main Street in Trappers Cove. We’re across the street from—”

“Got it, ma’am. Officers are on their way. Are you in danger?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.” She turned to the guy. “Did you see anyone back there?”

He shook his head, then crumpled forward, clutching his stomach.

“I think we’re okay. The side door is open.”

“Roger that.” The dispatcher hung up.

Unsure of how to be helpful, Hannah rubbed his broad back, now shaking with silent sobs. When he leaned against her with a groan, she gathered him into her arms and held him, swaying slowly as he wept into the crook of her neck. His soft hair tickled her cheek.

Heart thundering, she battled between journalistic curiosity and compassion. This poor, traumatized man needed comfort more than she needed to gawk at a potential crime scene. Besides, earning his trust might unlock the juiciest story to hit Trappers Cove in ages.

Shocked at her mercenary impulse, she gave herself a mental slap. What the hell was wrong with her?

After a few minutes, he released her, swiped his forearm over his streaming, swollen eyes, and fumbled in his pocket.

“Here.” She pulled a pack of Kleenex from her purse.

“Thanks.” He sniffed hard and flashed a heartbreaking crooked smile. “Sorry, I’m a mess.”

Something about his strong features reminded her of Gus—long nose with a slight curve, large, dark eyes, thick, straight brows. Even his sharp, scruff-dusted jaw and curly, dark-chocolate hair resembled the photos of a younger Gus she’d dug up in this afternoon’s research. Thirty years ago, Gus was a hottie, and so was his…