Page 8 of Queen of Rebels (Shifters of Sherwood #3)

It takes us a while to find the road to Nottingham. Again, it’s the same one we followed toward the jail—the one that winds out of the forest and toward town—but this time, we take a right, curving to the other side of the outskirts, where there are still only a few houses, mostly farmland, and the occasional entrance through a rickety fence.

“Well, if it isn’t our lucky day,” Rob says after we’ve been walking along the road for a good twenty minutes.

Ahead of us is a small hovel with a hand-painted sign that says Farm Stand.

“We don’t have any money,” I say.

“Well, there aren’t any security cameras,” Tuck says, squinting around as we come closer.

It’s just some plywood nailed in place, with a stool inside serving as a shelf. Inside are two cardboard containers: one of strawberries and one of tomatoes. Beside them sits a small metal box with a slit in the top.

“Honor system,” I say.

“I want to be honorable,” Tuck says, eyeing the food, “but I also can’t deny those look delicious. Tomatoes, right in season”

I swallow. “Yeah...”

“We’ll come back for them,” Rob says, “and repay them—and then some. But for now, I think this girl deserves some fresh fruit.”

I chew on my lip, but it’s too good to resist. After days of eating nothing but gamey, overcooked meat, I lunge for the strawberries. Tuck takes the tomatoes, and we continue on our way, cramming our faces as we go.

“Did we catch their name or anything?” Tuck’s mouth is full of tomato, which he’s eating like an apple. “Just so we know where to come back later.”

“I didn’t...” I trail off and look over my shoulder.

On the other side of the farm stand is another hand-painted sign, but also a more professional one—plastic on two metal-spiked legs: Gisbourne for DA.

The sight of it sends a cold bolt down my spine.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

“What?” Rob says, chucking a strawberry hull to the ground.

I grab his elbow and turn him around, pointing.

“Oh,” he says. “Damn. Well...” He sighs. “Someone’s going to vote for him, right? We probably shouldn’t be that shocked.”

“Yeah, but out here?” I sweep a hand around at the barren farmland. “What’s he going to do for them?”

“It’s not a question of what he’ll do, but what he’s promising to do,” Rob says, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“It might just be stuck out here by a campaign worker,” Tuck offers. “Doesn’t necessarily mean whoever owns that stand has anything to do with it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re probably right.”

I swallow the last of the strawberries. “Let’s just keep going.”

As the road curves, I realize we’re coming up on familiar territory—Jimmy’s Auto Parts. The place I used to frequent when I was nothing more than a humble mechanic, as opposed to a criminal accomplice with magical powers. It’s also the place where LJ decided to make two rednecks eat concrete instead of grabbing my ass—or whatever they were planning to do.

My heart twists a little as the familiar building comes into view. I’d give anything to go back in there, say hi, just act for one second like things were normal.

But then I see it again—the same plastic sign with metal legs, bright colors, and clear type: Gisbourne for DA.

“Jimmy,” I whisper.

Tuck and Rob’s gazes follow mine.

“You know him?” Rob asks.

“Your auto parts guy,” Tuck says, remembering.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I never would have thought...”

I trail off, and we trudge the rest of the way to the MegaValu in silence.

As big-box stores go, it’s never been the fanciest, but I’m pretty well acquainted with it. It was always in my budget back when I had nothing more than a measly allowance from Uncle John. He miraculously let me buy my own clothes, presumably because he felt icked out at the thought of picking out anything too girly—even though all I ever bought was T-shirts and jeans.

It’s not too busy for midday. Pickup trucks and minivans are parked erratically throughout the lot, with carts strewn carelessly across the empty spaces. The orange “V” in the light-up sign flickers a little.

We approach it from the side, hanging back at the corner by one of the dumpsters.

“So what?” Tuck asks. “We go in with you?”

“No,” I say. “There are going to be cameras. It’s not a good idea. I think it should just be me.”

“Because you don’t stick out?” Rob says, giving me a quick up-and-down.

He’s right. I’m dirty, in pajamas, and haven’t combed my hair in almost a week.

“It’s a MegaValu,” I say. “People don’t get dressed up here.”

He clicks his tongue. “Fair point.”

“All right, but if you’re not back within”— he glances at the MegaValu gas pumps, where a digital clock glows red—“twenty, thirty minutes, we’re coming in.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”

Tuck lifts an eyebrow. “Have you ever shoplifted before, Maren?”

I huff. “Surprisingly, no. I’ve only pulled off grand theft so far, but I think I can handle it.”

Tuck backs off, chastened but smiling.

“All right, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Rob calls after me as I stride in.

I suck in a breath for courage, tucking my hair behind my ears as the doors slide open, welcoming me with a whoosh of air conditioning and canned pop music from the ’80s. It feels surreal, like coming back from a foreign country—not that I’d know. Stepping back into this normal part of culture that used to be so much a part of my life feels wrong somehow.

“Hello! Welcome to MegaValu,” a kindly lady says, bobbing her head at everyone who enters.

She’s maybe in her mid-seventies, with tight curls of gray hair and a bright orange vest. Way too old to be working, if you ask me, and looks like she’d rather be at home with her grandkids or knitting a sweater than struggling to stay upright in her orthopedic shoes. But her expression is sunny.

Her name tag says “Donna,” and something in the back of my mind clicks.

Donna. Donna Patterson. Nottingham Middle School.

“Maren,” she says. “Is that you?”

Oh, no.

“Ah...yes,” I say, trying to sound casual and not panicked.

So much for not being recognized.

Mrs. Patterson was always nice—a math teacher who let me eat lunch in her room when I was bullied out of the cafeteria. She always had a metal tin of those butter cookies for me, and it never seemed to run out.

“Hi there,” I say, lamely. “I...thought you retired.”

“Oh yes, yes. Retired from teaching five years ago,” she says with a smile. “But, well, you know—needed to keep myself active.”

And money , she doesn’t say, but I hear it anyway.

“My husband says it’s good for me to keep occupied,” she continues.

Her words send a chill right to the center of my chest. Mrs. Patterson’s husband died . Years ago. I remember hearing about it when I was in tenth grade.

“But we get by,” she says. “Good gosh, it’s nice to see you, Maren! You know, I heard you were getting married. Is that right?”

If Mrs. Patterson is a little bit senile, I guess there’s no harm in playing along—especially if she’s not going to bother me or call the sheriff.

“Yes,” I say. “Soon enough.”

“It’s so wonderful to run into you. What a lucky girl.” She hums happily. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve got lots of shopping to do.”

She smiles at me as though she can’t even see the dirt-stained clothes and wild hair.

“Take care now, doll.”

“You too,” I say.

I walk away down the gleaming tile, my fists clenched.

All my anxiety is replaced with anger—anger that someone like Mrs. Patterson has to take a shitty job at MegaValu and wear that stupid vest just to... what? Buy groceries? Pay her property taxes?

It’s not right. It’s not right at all.

Focus, Maren, I tell myself.

I glance overhead at the hanging signs: Home and Garden, Furniture, Electronics, Clothing. The center of the store stretches out before me, aisle after aisle. I zip through, walking as quickly as I can without looking suspicious.

Fortunately, most people are wrapped up in their own business. A guy in an orange hunter’s hat browses through cargo pants. A mom with two toddlers shrieking inside a cart looks like she needs a nap herself. No one’s paying anyone else any ind.

When I reach the women’s section, I make my selections as quickly as I can. Jeans, with the biggest pockets I can find. An oversized jacket—apparently in style now—and a tank top. Plus, because I can’t resist, a five-pack of Hanes Her Way.

I slip toward the fitting rooms, which are, of course, unattended, with abandoned hangers and clothes strewn about the counter out front, and duck into one of the cabins.

I strip out of my dirty clothes like they’re burning me and tear into the underwear package with my fingernails like a wild animal. I’ve never been so excited to put on cheapy underpants, but it’s an honest relief.

The jeans fit okay, a little loose around the waist, and the tank top and jacket slide on easily. I feel around for security tags but find none.

It’s almost too easy.

Wadding up my old clothes, I stride out and chuck them in a nearby trash can. Grabbing a baseball cap off a nearby display, I tuck my hair inside, and help myself to a pair of canvas sneakers a few aisles over. Boom: dressed.

The orange hat guy is closer now, walking through the Home Goods section with a buddy in a vest and a scraggly goatee.

“A damn bear attack,” the goatee guy is saying.

I slow my brisk footsteps.

“That’s what I heard,” orange hat guy says. “You know my stepbrother works down at the jail. Said it was the damnedest thing.”

“So what, bear meat chili for the winter?” Goatee guy snorts in an ugly chuckle.

“Nah. They say the fucker escaped. Probably wandered off somewhere to die—like one of those elephant graveyards.”

“That’s elephants, idiot, not bears.”

“You know what I mean. Thing’s gotta be rabid if it’s coming that close to people, though.” He makes a shotgun-loading sound with his mouth. “Like to get close to him myself.”

I’m lingering too long. I’ve got to keep going.

“The damn criminal element,” goatee guy mutters as I fast-track away. “Everything’s going to shit nowadays.”

A few minutes later, I’ve stuffed the jacket with everything I possibly can—bandages, wet wipes, antiseptic, hair ties, and the strangest assortment of snack foods I could swipe from end cap displays. I’m starting to look absurd with all of this hidden in my jacket.

Wandering back to the women’s accessories section, I pick out a big, ugly beach bag with a plastic daisy on it. It’s perfect. I stuff it with everyone else’s new wardrobe.

I don’t know what size anyone wears, but I guess large will do for everyone. I toss in a couple of T-shirts and joggers, lingering for a moment with mild amusement at the underwear section. Boxers or briefs?

It’s the strange detail to escape my notice, given how well I know them now, but I guess I was too distracted to notice. I settle on boxer briefs for everyone, and with that, plus a bar of soap and a bottle of store-brand two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, I’m ready to go.

I square my shoulders and heft the bag onto my shoulder. Just act confident , I tell myself. If you look suspicious, they’ll treat you suspiciously.

I wait for cover. The woman with the shrieking toddlers is exiting with two full carts stuffed with diapers and store-brand puree pouches. I walk in her drift, keeping my pace steady. Just four steps to go, and I’m free.

“Take care now, Maren,” Mrs. Patterson calls.

I slow. Risky or not, I can’t bear to be rude to her.

“Bye, Mrs. Patterson.” I smile, doing an Academy Award worthy performance of “girl who was definitely wearing this outfit when she came into the store.”

“So lovely to see you, dear.” She beams. “And I can’t tell you how happy I am that things are looking up for you. I know you had...” She blinks a few times behind her glasses. “A hard time back in school.”

I swallow hard, tears threatening at the corners of my eyes.

“Thank you,” I say, even though it’s a lie. She thinks I’m getting married—to Guy Gisbourne, presumably—and that’s not exactly accurate, on a few counts.

Still, I am happier now. So I’ll take her congratulations.

I linger just a moment longer, like I’m glued in place, unable to resist.

“You really take care, Mrs. Patterson,” I say. “Be careful who you trust. And...” I inhale sharply before I lose my nerve. “Don’t trust Guy Gisbourne, all right? When the election comes up. He’s not what he seems.”

“Oh, my,” she says, surprised but smiling. “Well, I—”

I don’t catch what else she says as I push through the exit.