Page 25 of Traitor

“Nothing,” I reply, then nod to one of the empty tables on the deck. “I think I’ll take one of those muffins from the bar and wait outside.”

She’s interrupted by the ringing of the landline and gives me a smile and a wave.

“I heard a kid drowned last night…”

“They found her body washed up on shore…”

“That scary owner guy killed a man because he was sleeping with his woman…”

If the situation weren’t so dire, the misinformed whispers from the crowd might have made me chuckle. At least no one knew I was involved…yet. And they won’t, so long as I have it my way.

The blueberry muffin I snag from the breakfast bar smells amazing, and even though my stomach revolts at the thought of food, I force down a few large bites along with several gulps of coffee. My hands ache for a pencil and pad of paper to sketch the scene in front of me. One of the things I learned in therapy was to draw to keep my mind from racing. Maybe it leeched a bit of the natural joy I got from art for a time, but it helped to distract me.

I could use the distraction now.

I sense Ford before I see him. The muscles in my neck and shoulders clench and the hairs on my arm prickle. My hands clench on the nearly empty coffee cup. I’m self-aware enough to realize my reaction to him can’t merely be fear. If that were the case, I’d still be in my room. I wouldn’t be out here, watching, waiting for him…and that’s what truly scares me. Not that he’s big and rough, and his direct gaze makes my insides shiver. Not his past, whatever it is.

What scares me the most…is not being scared of him at all.