Page 10 - My FlipBook
P. 10
of the afternoon. She’s not the first person who’s mispronounced
my name. But she could at least smile and make me feel like my
seven-dollar mocha roast is worth the price, couldn’t she?
I return to my seat at the window-side counter.
And for a second, I lock gazes with a man on the other side
of the window. He’s in a black raincoat, hood up, but somehow
I know he’s looking at me.
Judging.
Spying.
A chill runs up my spine.
Hunting.
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