Just Watch Me (Riley Wolfe 1)

“Well, but we sort of have to, don’t we?” she said. They had arrived at the door marked “DO NOT ENTER: STAFF ONLY.” It led to the loading dock and the dumpster.

“That’s no guarantee that we will,” he said. “I’ve known—hey!” He broke off as the door swung open, nearly hitting Randall, and Angela came hurrying through.

“Oh!” Angela said, clearly as startled as they were. And for some reason, she turned bright red. “I was just—I, uh—actually,” she stammered. She looked around wildly, smoothing her skirt jerkily. “I’m just locating the catalogs,” she said, pointing behind her. “Some twit has misplaced them, apparently.” She squirmed, then said, “I’ll have a look in the office, all right?” And before either of them could speak, she hurried off.

“What was all that about?” Katrina said.

Randall shrugged—and almost dropped his cargo again. “Oops, gotcha,” he said, grabbing the trash and balancing it in his arms. “I have no idea,” he said. “Maybe just British eccentricity?”

“She seemed embarrassed about something,” Katrina said, pulling the door back open so they could get through.

“Like I said, probably fell asleep,” Randall said. They walked down the hall toward the loading dock door. “I mean, if she did, and she thinks we caught her at it—”

“Maybe so,” Katrina said. “I could use a nap myself right now.”

They were only a step beyond the door of the supply room when it, too, swung suddenly open.

“Whoa,” Randall said, dodging away from the door, and they both turned back to see who had opened the door.

A very large man stood in the doorway, adjusting his pants and fastening his belt, staring at them.

“Hello,” Katrina said. She cocked her head to one side and said, “You’re with the security people, aren’t you? I’ve seen you with them. Aren’t you the

one they call Chief?”

The large man ignored Katrina and squinted at Randall. He gave his pants one last tug and tilted his head to one side. He raised one scarred eyebrow and pointed at Randall. “I’ve seen you before,” he said. “I remember your face.” And there was something in his tone that made the memory seem menacing.

“Uh, yes,” Randall said. “I’m the curator of the museum.”

The man shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “Somewhere before this. In the last six months.”

“Uh, well, I’ve been in England until recently, and—”

But the chief was already shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Somewhere else. Where you shouldn’t have been.” His forehead wrinkled in thought; the man moved around Randall, looking him over like he was sizing up an animal for the slaughter.

“Well, maybe you saw him on the news,” Katrina said, trying to break the palpable tension.

The chief stopped between them and the loading dock and shook his head. “Someplace you shouldn’t have been,” he repeated slowly.

“You must be mistaken,” Randall said. “Now, before my arms break from this trash—” And he tried to push past, but the chief put a huge hand on his chest and stopped him.

“I don’t make mistakes. Not about this,” the chief said. “I remember faces. It’s kept me alive.”

“Well, I’d love to play guessing games with you, but I have a lot to do, so excuse me?” And Randall finally managed to get past the chief. “Katrina—come on.”

Katrina stood there a moment longer, looking with surprise at the chief. He was still staring after Randall. “I’m gonna remember,” he said softly, his voice filled with menace.

“Katrina!” Randall called again.

Her husband’s words jerked her into motion. “Coming,” she said.

She caught up with him at the door to the loading dock. “What was that about?” she asked Randall.

“No idea,” he said.

“He said, ‘I’m gonna remember,’” Katrina said. “Like it was some kind of threat, or—”

“Shit,” Randall said. “Give me a hand with this door?”