Page 115 of Risky Obsession

This may be my last chance to use my credit card, maybe I could take some cash out at the counter. A swivel rack containing hats, scarves, and beanies stood at the back wall. I tugged off two beanies and added them to my basket. Hunting along the rows, I found sunglasses and reading glasses. I quickly chose two pairs of each. The cell phones were on a rack at the front of the shop. I grabbed the cheapest one and a car phone charger to suit the model and headed for the counter.

As I dumped out the contents of my basket, the storekeeper, who looked bored out of his brains, didn’t say a word.

Neither did I.

His uninterested expression reminded me of Tory’s comment about her boring job. I couldn’t see her doing a career like that.

On the back wall behind the storekeeper’s head, the TV screen changed.

Oh fuck!

A picture of Tory and me was on the news. We were dressed in our gala attire, and Tory had the stolen fur shawl across her shoulders. We both had a glass of champagne in our hands and seemed to be looking straight at the camera. The image was taken when we were searching for Gunter in the crowd at the gala.

My heart thundered as the cashier rang up my items, and I prayed he didn’t turn around as headlines that I couldn’t read raced across the bottom of the screen.

“Das sind einhundertachtundsiebzig Euro,” he said, leveling a bored expression at me as he shoved the items into a plastic bag.

Ditching the idea of using my credit card, I pulled two hundred euro notes from my wallet, hoping it was enough.

He swept the notes off the counter, and feeling like a ticking bomb was in my brain, I glanced at the television. Another photo image of us flashed on the screen. This time it was in the hotel lobby.

Then the picture changed to a young woman and a man wearing a red coat. They were the couple who had greeted us when we’d arrived back at the hotel after the ball.

Are they dead?

The TV switched to footage of a body in a bag being wheeled on a trolley toward an ambulance outside the hotel we’d stayed at.

Fuck. They are dead.

Dread clawed up my spine.

The cashier pushed the change across the counter. Attempting a smile, I grabbed the money and the bag, and then forced myself to walk casually away from the counter, fighting the urge to run like hell.

The frigid air hit me, and panic threatened to consume me. Once I was out of view of the cashier, I legged it to the car, jumped in, and tossed the stuff onto Tory’s lap.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

I pressed the ignition and stomped on the gas. “We’re all over the news. They have photos of us at the ball and the hotel.”

“Shit! Did he recognize you?”

Pulling on my seat belt as the tires screeched against the pavement, Isped away from the gas station and turned the car onto the main road. “I don’t think so.”

“Jesus. Slow down.” She pressed her hand to the roof as I yanked the car into the lane. “We don’t need to draw any extra attention.”

I pulled back on the speed.

“Did you use your credit card?” she asked.

“No. Not once I saw our photos on the TV. I used cash.”

“Good. Hopefully they won’t track us to that gas station.”

She fished into the plastic bag and pulled out a water bottle. “Thank you,” she muttered as she opened the bottle. “Want some?”

I took the bottle from her and as I swigged a third of the contents, I decided she had to know what else I saw. We were in this together.

“I think I was right about that asshole eliminating witnesses at the hotel.”