Bending down, I grab the folded up piece of paper, tucking it into my fist. Good thing I’ve still got my gloves on. I’m kind of iffy on taking something from anyone, no matter who they are. And I have no idea what it is he’s giving me.
Or why.
I don’t like how he says he’s been waiting for me. I want to be like a ghost, as invisible as he thinks he is if only because I don’t want to be on anybody’s radar. I’m just a normal chick. A nobody.
Seems like I caught his attention, though.
Suspicion runs through me. It’s not surprising. My Shadow Man taught me long ago to be wary and on my guard. With everything going on, I’ve been a little overwhelmed and, okay, a bit reckless.
Right now?
He’s got my attention.
The other day, I wondered if maybe he could be the same street sleeper who warned me about Dr. Gillespie back in Acorn Falls. It didn’t seem possible and I let it go.
Not this time. With all my alarm bells ringing, I pause along the curb, peering closely at him.
His vibrant green eyes aren’t rimmed with red. They’re not filmy or glazed, either. The man in Acorn Falls had blue eyes, too, I remember. And a full-on beard, not just the scruff. Plus, he reeked of old booze. This guy doesn’t.
Still.
“Do I know you?”
“I don't know. Do I know you?”
I fucking hope not.
Just my luck. I throw a couple of dollars into a stranger’s cup and, out of the whole neighborhood, he’s the one who wonders if I’m familiar.
Good going, Riley.
I’ve gotta get away from him. This whole interaction is too strange and, believe me, I know what strange is. I offer him a half smile, shaking my head in answer to his question, then start to move away from him.
Two steps later I remember the empty coffee cup perched in front of him. Guy’s a weirdo, sure, but I won’t forget what it was like to sleep in the sewer and be so hungry that I thought it was a good idea to eat a cursed peach (even if I hadn’t known it was cursed at the time). I might have the urge to run, but not quite yet.
“Um. Hang on.” Still holding onto the scrap, I dig into my pocket, pulling out a couple of bills. I see a ‘1’ printed on them in my haste. Could be a single, could be a ten. I don’t care. I quickly shove them in his cup. “For you. Take care, buddy.”
“You do the same.”
He doesn’t say ‘thank you’. As I hurry away from him, it hits me that he didn’t say ‘thank you’. And it’s not like I expect it. I’m not giving him money because I expect any gratitude or because I want to feel better about my shitty situation. Honestly, I couldn’t care less that he accepted my money like it was his due. Hey, no strings attached, right?
Not when you’ve spent a lifetime running from the fae. The same fantastical creatures who abide by barg
ains and trickery but who refuse to offer any thanks.
I come to a sudden stop inside of the empty lobby of our building. His eyes were green. Not silver. Not gold. Green.
I should be fine.
Should be.
What did he give me, I wonder. I don’t remember dropping anything.
As soon as I open it and see the two different handwritings cramped together on a page of crumpled paper, I suddenly remember.
I’m thrown back to that awful night when I discovered Carolina sprawled out on the floor of the Wilkes House. She was dead, a piece of paper a few inches from her outstretched hand. I grabbed that and her money, and while I’ve been blowing through her cash, I forgot all about the paper I had shoved in my jeans pocket.
This is it. It has to be.