Home for Christmas: New Adult Holiday Dark Suspense Romance (3 page)

“We meet again, Virginia.”

She startled, her hand going to her throat, as Mr. Spencer came in, followed by the red-heeled manager woman. Ginny grabbed the papers out and locked up her own box.

“Hi, Mr. Spencer,” Ginny said again, clearing her throat and taking a step back. “I’m done here. Thanks.”

The bank manager locked up Ginny’s box with her key, putting it back. It was empty now. Then she took out another box—Mr. Spencer’s, Ginny assumed—and unlocked it with her key.

“Nice seeing you,” Ginny said, as she walked past her old—now, very old—math teacher. “Bye now.”

“Goodbye, Virginia,” he called.

Ginny stopped in the lobby to shove the papers into her backpack. Mr. Spencer was still in the back, presumably stuffing his safe deposit box full of stock certificates. Or ketchup packets. Either way, it was more than Ginny had. She put her backpack on and braced herself against the wind as she went out into the cold. No money, nowhere to stay even if she found a way back, and she was starving. All she wanted was a warm bed and a cheeseburger. She’d even be happy with one of those sloppy McDonald’s cheeseburgers with the fake meat and the crooked cheese.

She stood there looking at those golden arches for a minute, the wind cutting through her like a knife. Maybe if she went inside and sat at a table for a while, someone would forget to throw away their garbage. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been hungry enough to eat someone else’s food.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee, Virginia?”

“Mr. Spencer!” Ginny grabbed at her chest again. It was the third time he’d nearly given her a heart attack.

“Caribou Coffee, right across the street.” He nodded toward the bright, cheery coffee house packed with people coming and going, ordering coffee and all sorts of sandwiches and pastries. “I’m buying.”

Ginny studied him for a moment, considering, but her stomach decided her. Besides, how much trouble could she get into with her eighty-year-old former math teacher? The man even took her arm when they crossed the street, for pete’s sake.

“So what have you been up to, Virginia?” Mr. Spencer asked once they’d ordered—coffee for him, black, and a cherry Coke for her, made with real cherry syrup, according to the barista. She also ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and a cherry tart. She felt bad for getting food on his dime, but he insisted she get what she wanted, and she was hungry. Dizzyingly hungry. “Did you graduate?”

“Last June,” she replied through a delicious mouthful of croissant, cheese, and pork. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Even the peanut butter in her pocket paled in comparison.

“College then?” he sipped his coffee, tilting his head at her, speculative. “You were always very bright.”

“Art school.” It was just a little white lie. “In the fall. I’m just... I’m not doing much right now.”

“Art school.” He pursed his thin lips and nodded like any typical math teacher would. Art school was impractical. Illogical. “Scholarship?”

She just nodded, wolfing down her sandwich. It was almost gone and her stomach, used to far less food, was stretched to capacity, but she kept going anyway. He was watching her with a strange, curious look on his face, like she was an interesting specimen he’d found under a microscope. Which would have been an apt metaphor, if he’d taught science.

“I guess you retired, huh?” she asked, sipping her Coke. It was sugary sweet, full of delicious calories.

“Last June.” He nodded. “My wife died six months ago. Cancer. It’s been a helluva year.”

“I’m so sorry.” Ginny licked cherry filling off her fingers. The tart was still warm from the oven, much better than any McDonald’s apple pie would have been. Not that she was picky these days. “I lost my mom to cancer.”

“Fuck cancer.” He narrowed his rheumy eyes and shook his head.

Ginny blinked at him in surprise. She’d never heard a teacher swear before, but then again, they weren’t in school.

“Yeah.” She swallowed, smiling grimly, thinking of her mom. “Fuck cancer.”

“Are you anorexic, Virginia?”

“Are you kidding me?” She gaped at him, nearly choking on the last of her cherry pie. “Haven’t you been watching me eat?”

“Girls these days, I hear they do that.” He shrugged. “Starve themselves. It’s a strange malady, given the excesses of our culture.”

“No, Mr. Spencer, I’m not anorexic.” She licked her cherry-stained lips and gulped her cherry Coke.

“You’re very thin, Virginia.”

She didn’t have an answer to that. She knew she was thin. Even before she ran away, there’d only been food at the house sporadically. When Brody felt like leaving grocery money, she went shopping. She ate a lot of boxed mac and cheese and ramen because it was cheap and she could hide it in her room. On the few occasions she tried to get a job, Brody had quashed that, one way or another.

“So are you, Mr. Spencer,” she pointed out.

“True.” He chuckled, looking down at his thin frame. He wasn’t eighty, not really—but his hair was white, the lines in his face deep. “Losing your spouse is an effective diet plan, but I don’t recommend it.”

“Mr. Spencer, do you have a car?”

“Yes, young lady, I do.” He nodded toward the bank. “Left it over there in the parking lot. Why do you ask?”

“I kind of need a ride.”

It was too much, she knew. Too risky. What if he told someone—someone who knew Brody? But now that she was full, and warm, that little bit of comfort made her dread trying to find a ride back to Lewisonville. Besides, it was a long shot.

“Sure,” Mr. Spencer agreed amiably enough. “You live over on Maple, don’t you?”

Crap. How did he remember that?

“Actually... I need a ride to Lewisonville”

“What are you doing in Lewisonville?”

“My sister lives there.” That wasn’t a lie, not exactly.

“Ah, I remember Maggie.” He gave her a knowing nod. “Terrible at algebra.”

“She’s married. Has two little boys now,” Ginny replied. “Doesn’t need algebra anymore.”

“You always need algebra.”

“It’s okay, I can take the bus.” She couldn’t. She didn’t have the money. But he didn’t need to know that. “I just... don’t have a ticket yet...”

“Ah, what the hell. I’m not doing anything for the rest of my life. Let’s take a road trip, Virginia.”

“Really?” She brightened. “That would be great. Really great!”

“So you said. I have to use the facilities.” Mr. Spencer got up slowly. “Be grateful you’ll never have a prostate problem, Virginia.”

“Okay.” She tried to suppress a smile and couldn’t. “Actually, I should go too.”

She had just started to slide out of the booth when she felt something prickle at the back of her neck. A warning. But what? Mr. Spencer was harmless—she was sure of that. 

“Want to meet me at my car?” The old man stood too, nodding across the street. It was after five now and the bank lot was empty. They’d all gone home for the day. “It’s the white Sable.”

“Sure,” she agreed, her voice sounding faint, even to her own ears.

She couldn’t shake that feeling as she stood and glanced around the coffee shop. She didn’t recognize anyone, although most of the tables and booths were filled. Mr. Spencer had already disappeared into the men’s room.

That’s when she felt him watching her. It wasn’t so much seeing him as just knowing, a kind of extrasensory jolt. Her gaze lifted to see Brody staring at her through the frosted glass window. She bolted from the booth and straight-armed the door, heading in the opposite direction from Brody, trying not to run and attract attention to her flight. When she glanced behind her, she saw his wiry frame threading through the crowd of Christmas shoppers, his uniform parting the tide.

He caught her in the alleyway and she realized her mistake the moment his hand found her neck and pressed her, face first, hard against the brick. There was no one back here, no bright lights, no warm bodies—no watching eyes. It was cold, dark, and they were completely alone.

“Did you think you could run from me?” Brody’s breath reeked of alcohol, even though he was wearing his uniform, and Ginny turned her head, struggling. “Did you really think you could hide?”

She couldn’t answer. His hand at her throat made it impossible. He wasn’t a big man, but he was tall and sinewy, and surprisingly strong. His voice turned smooth as he took his hand from her throat, twisting her arm up behind her, his weight pressing her into the wall.

“I told you, girl.” His voice was like slick oil against her ear. “You can’t ever hide from me. I own the system. Don’t forget it. You’re a number that shows up wherever you go. I’ve got eyes everywhere. You rent a motel room, you’re mine. You use a credit card, you’re mine. Put your name on a lease, you’re mine. You get a paycheck, you’re mine. Do you understand me?
You. Are. Mine.”

Ginny gave in to her fear—no matter what she did, no matter where she ran, he would track her down. She nearly gasped out loud at her own realization. Hot tears stung her eyes and she looked away, down the alley, hoping to see someone, anyone. There was nothing but darkness. She cursed her hunger, the driving need that had allowed her to accept Mr. Spencer’s invitation to the little café when Brody just happened to be passing by.

He felt her relenting and let up a little, taking the opportunity to ask conversationally, “So where is it, Gin? Just give it to me and we’ll be done. I promise you.”

“Why didn’t you find me weeks ago?” she taunted. She felt him startle, could almost hear the frown when he grunted and tightened his grip. “If you’re so smart, so
connected
...”

“Shut up!” he growled, making her wince when he shoved his knee between hers, pressing her belly into the wall.

“I don’t have it with me,” she lied flatly, aching to hide or ditch her bag somewhere, using all of her force of will to keep still and let its weight dangle from her forearm, as if she couldn’t care less. “But if you touch me... if you touch anyone I care about... your face will be all over the news, and this time it won’t be because the mayor is pinning a ribbon to your chest.”

“Bullshit!” He didn’t sound convinced. She felt him hesitating, his breath short and struggling in her ear.

“No,” Ginny said, surprising herself with the steel edge in her voice. “You’re the bullshit artist, Brody. Me, I tell the truth, and I’m telling you the truth right now. Believe it.”

The back door swung open and Ginny recognized one of the café workers as he brought out a bag of trash. His eyes widened in surprise and he looked concerned—before he saw Brody’s uniform, anyway. Ginny knew how much power that uniform had, how it could immediately anesthetize.

“Thank you, Officer,” Ginny gasped, using the moment of surprise to twist out of Brody’s grip and head toward the young man still standing agape in the doorway. “You saved my life.”

“Hey!” Brody called, but he was too late. She was already disappearing through the busy coffee house and out the front door onto the street.

She hid, cowering behind the McDonalds dumpster, for a good five minutes. Maybe ten. She was too afraid to even move, sure Brody would come around the corner and find her any moment. Then she remembered Mr. Spencer and her promise to meet him at his car. Had he already driven away?

Ginny dared to peek out from behind the dumpster and saw his white car in the lot. There was exhaust coming from the back end, so he was in it. Did she dare? It was only the thought that Brody would be looking for her, that he wouldn’t give up, now that he’d sighted her, that finally got her moving. The faster she got away from this town, the better, and Mr. Spencer was her fastest way out at the moment.

“And I thought I took a long time in the bathroom,” Mr. Spencer said when Ginny pulled open and threw herself into the car. “You don’t have prostate problems, do you?”

“No,” she panted. “I’ve got ninety-nine other problems, but that’s not one. Step on it, Mr. Spencer.”

“Why, are the cops after you?”

“No.” That wasn’t a complete lie. There was just one cop after her.

Ginny sank low in the passenger seat as Mr. Spencer pulled slowly out onto the street, like any senior citizen driver would. It was far less
Fast and Furious
than she wanted it to be, but she didn’t see any sign of Brody. Still, she didn’t fully relax until they got out of town and onto the highway. Mr. Spencer was doing a measly fifty-five—and at that rate, it would be three hours before they got into Lewisonville—but the heater was on and with every mile, she got further and further way from Brody.

That was a blessed relief.

“What do you think, Virginia?” Mr. Spencer asked, pulling a CD out of a sleeve on his visor. “Creedence or Bruce Springsteen?”

She wasn’t about to ask him if he had anything more current or, perhaps, in iPod.

“Creedence,” she decided, taking the CD from him and sliding it into the player. It was full dark already and there was a moon rising. She just hoped it wasn’t a bad one, like the song said.

“Mr. Spencer, do you mind if I take a nap?” she murmured, but her eyes were already closing as she leaned her head against the window.

“Not at all, Virginia,” he said, but his voice already sounded far away. “Not at all.”

* * * *

Maggie and the boys were already outside when she showed up at the shelter but they boys weren’t on the swings. It had snowed overnight and they were running and playing in the white stuff, throwing snowballs, making snow angels and sliding on the ice. There was a big hill out back that crested into a golf course on the other side—there was a big fence at the top—and Ginny found herself wishing they had a sled.

“You look tired.” Maggie, always the little mother hen, touched Ginny’s cheek, her hand moving to her forehead, as if she was checking for a fever. “Are you okay?”