"I haven't talked to that deadbeat in over a year." Paula tried to keep a quaver out of her voice. She could see the gold-eyed stranger getting bolder by the moment.
Now he reached out, gripped the mop just behind the head, and moved it away from his face. Paula struggled to keep hold of the mop as it was moved against her resistance. She didn't have a chance. He was shockingly, terribly strong.
"Maybe we should go somewhere private and talk about this some more," he said.
From behind Paula, a voice said, "I think I heard the lady tell you to leave."
Mitch was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was holding one of the big knives from the kitchen. He held it down against his leg, but he held it in a way that suggested he knew a few things to do with it. As usual in the overheated kitchen, he wore nothing on top but a sleeveless, sweat-damp T-shirt, half tucked into his stained jeans. His bare, hairy arms were all muscle and covered in crudely inked tattoos, a skull and a rose and the name Veva and some cartoony dinosaurs. Paula had long suspected that they were jail tattoos, but didn't really want to ask.
"She said get out," Mitch added. "Just in case you missed it."
In his other hand, he was holding a damp cloth. With his eyes fixed on the stranger, he began to carefully polish the blade of the butcher knife.
Paula's eyes nearly popped out of her head. She edged out of the way to make sure she wasn't between them. The stranger was looking at Mitch now instead of her, and his hand had slipped off the mop head. She gave it a fierce thrust, poking him in the face with the wet mop end.
He made a noise like "Blargle!" and stumbled into the door.
"Out!" she snapped.
He wrenched the door open, scrubbing at his face. "We're going to find him with or without your help," he said coldly, and slammed the door behind him with a loud clash of bells.
"I don't care!" Paula yelled after him. "Terry can drive off a cliff for all I care!"
Terry ... or whatever his real name was.
Her knees wobbled. She swayed against the counter, and lowered the mop for support.
"You okay, Miz DeWitt?" Mitch said.
"Uh ... yeah. I'm okay. Thank you. Also," Paula added, "remind me not to get on your bad side."
Mitch grinned. "If he comes back, ma'am, just you let me know."
"Okay," Paula agreed. "Sure. Thanks."
Mitch gave her a nod and went back to the kitchen.
Paula returned the mop to the bucket and went over to peek cautiously out the door. The sidewalk was clear; there was no one in sight except a boy shoveling snow outside the hardware store.
That weirdo hadn't had a weapon. He wouldn't come back, would he? Maybe once he thought about it, he would realize that there was no point in going after her for Terry's debts or present whereabouts.
A quivering feeling of weakness went through her, as if in counterpoint to her furious strength a few moments before. She had to raise her hand to her face to make sure she wasn't crying. Her eyes felt hot and prickly.
Damn Terry. He just had to keep finding new ways to screw up her life. Her biggest regret was marrying that loser—or would have been, at least, if it hadn't resulted in two beautiful kids. She wouldn't undo Austin and Lissy for the world.
And honestly, Terry hadn't been an awful husband. He was a decent father to the kids, too, when he was around. But he was a pathological liar, and apparently it went deeper even than she had realized.
She was done with men. Absolutely done.
With a deep sigh, she got a bleach rag and went to wipe the mop water off her recently cleaned tables.
He won't come back. I'm sure he won't.
Because I don't know what I'm going to do if he does.
Dan
Waking up early had never been a problem for Dan. He'd struggled more at adapting to a night work schedule at his various post-service bouncer jobs. Even when he went to bed at 2 a.m., he tended to pop awake by 5:30 or 6, rain or shine, winter or summer.
But it was someone moving around out in the main part of the house that woke him this time. He jolted out of a restless sleep to find himself wide awake and sitting up, adrenaline pumping