She’d no longer exist.
Chapter Two
GHOSTED
I can’t quite shakethe creeping sensation that I’m being watched as I tug an open-weave white sweater over my sports bra, lock the studio doors behind me, and walk to my car. There’s an odd tingling at the nape of my neck as my eyes scan the half-empty parking lot, seeking evident signs of danger.
There are none.
What are you expecting, Shelby? A man in a black trench-coat, twirling his mustache and cackling maniacally as he plots your demise?
After this morning’s strange encounter, I’m inclined to head straight home and hide behind the safety of a locked oak door… but I don’t want to give those thugs the satisfaction of ruining my day. Plus, knowing my refrigerator is currently as empty as one of Paul’s promises is enough incentive to turn my wheel in the direction of the Union Square Farmers Market.
It’s still early but the crowds are already thick with those out enjoying a quintessential summer Saturday morning. I move from stall to stall, selecting a week’s worth of fresh fruit and veggies from vendors I’ve come to recognize after my many visits, smiling as I barter for a bouquet of hydrangeas and a bottle of wine, plum tomatoes and fresh baked bread, summer squash and a ball of burrata cheese.
Live music drifts in the air, a fiddler playing for tips. Families stroll past on all sides, their squawking toddlers in tow. Couples lick ice cream cones and laugh as they purchase mulled cider from the carts. I watch a clumsy golden retriever puppy tripping over his own paws and contemplate, for the thousandth time, whether I should get a pet to keep me company.
Shelby, you don’t need a pet,a snarky inner voice chides.What you need is a life.
Sighing, I stow my produce away in a reusable cloth bag — really trying to regain some of my karma points with Mother Nature after the flower debacle — then grab a cup of coffee to sip as I wander around.
I love it here.
If I’m being entirely honest, that wasn’t always the case. Somerville wasn’t my first choice of living locations. I didn’t get a say in the matter; Paul purchased our home without so much as a conversation and told me I should be grateful my name was even listed on the deed of the fixer-upper Victorian he found in an up-and-coming area on the Cambridge border.
We are the new wave of gentrification, the eager millennial homeowners who have rapidly transformed a suburb once known as “Slumerville” into “The Brooklyn of Boston.” It may not be as bustling as Downtown Crossing or as hip as the ever-evolving Seaport… but it’s close enough to enjoy everything the city has to offer while quiet enough to lead a relatively private life.
The perfect place to raise a family.
Not that I’d know anything about that.
I’m winding my way through the dense crowd toward an impressive display of fresh herbs and spices when something slams into my legs with the strength of a small rhinoceros. I glance down to find a tow-headed toddler tugging at the thin fabric of my yoga pants to steady herself. There’s a pink bow in her corn-husk blonde hair and a tiny pair of red sneakers on her feet. My gaze gets stuck on her hands, splayed out like little starfish just above my knees, and I feel something pierce every chamber of my heart.
“Oh! Watch where you’re going, sweetie!” The mother apologizes profusely as the father scoops his small daughter into his arms. Both beam at me sheepishly. “So sorry about that…”
I smile politely and try to pretend I’m not struggling to breathe properly. Suddenly, I’m desperate to get home. To get out of this crowd, away from these picture-perfect families that remind me of everything my life was supposed to be. To shut myself inside my car before I start weeping in full view of the artisanal maple syrup stand.
Pathetic, much?
I race for the street as fast as my legs can carry me, flip flops smacking the pavement with each hurried stride, grocery bag swinging by my side. The throng falls away and with it the high-pitched sound of children’s laughter as I round the corner onto a blessedly empty stretch of sidewalk. When my low-slung, two-seater convertible comes into view, I breathe a sigh of undeniable relief and beeline for it.
I’m so intent on getting home, I don’t even glance around the street as I load my groceries into the trunk. The feeling creeps over me so slowly, at first I don’t even register it. Not until the hair on the back of my neck begins to stand on-end. Not until my body begins to hum with that odd, prickly sensation, zipping along my skin like an electric current.
I know, without turning to look, that there are eyes on me.
Someone’s watching.
Heart hammering faster, mind whirling with dreadful possibilities, I slam the trunk closed and try not to let my sudden tension show as I take slow steps toward the driver’s side door. I cast a surreptitious glance around the quiet street for signs of danger.
Unfortunately if anyone is, in fact, stalking me, they don’t make their presence known. Errr,that, or I’m simply not astute enough to pick them out amid the collection of nondescript sedans and SUVs parked on this block. To my eyes, things look cheerful as ever in the summer sunshine — exploding flower boxes, quaint brick, outdoor cafes, tree-lined sidewalks. Nothing remotely ominous.
You’re just rattled from this morning,I tell myself, dismissing my own overzealous imagination as I climb into my car and grip the wheel with tense fingers.Calm down, crazy pants.
By the time I turn onto Merriweather Street and pull into my driveway ten minutes later, I’ve nearly managed to convince myself that the strange sensation was nothing but a fleeting paranoid delusion. A momentary lapse in sanity. A temporary breach in my otherwise calm, cool, collected mentality.
These assurances would, of course, be far more effective if not for the fact that I make it halfway up my front walkway only to watch as a large, hulking figure detaches from the shadows of my wraparound porch and steps into my path.
“Well, if it isn’t Shelby Hunt,” Lefty says, eyes glittering victoriously.