Savage Row - Britney King Page 0,24

she’s very territorial over everything, a trait I’ve used to my advantage when it suits me, and complained incessantly about when it doesn’t.

I know it’s silly, if not petty, but there’s a part of me that wants to hear my husband call his folks back home and report on the job I’ve done. I want to hear him say how amazing everything was, how nice it is for us to make our own memories.

I am in the produce aisle, picking up apples for my mother-in-law’s famous pie when a man in a ball cap sidles up next to me. He’s wearing dark glasses, and his hat pulled low, so I don’t immediately recognize that it’s Mooney standing next to me. I’m too engulfed in my grocery list, too worried about whether I can really pull off a pie from scratch along with everything else I have to do. This, and I’m focused on finding apples without bruises, which is harder than I thought it would be.

“If they’re damaged, you get a discount,” the man says. When I look up, he smacks the apple against the side of the display as though he’s cracking an egg. At first I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. But then he does it again, and it’s strange and uncomfortable, so I spit out the first thing that comes to mind. “That seems illegal.”

He lowers his glasses, and my breath hitches in my throat. “Oh, Amy. My sweet, sweet Amy. It’s only illegal if you get caught.”

I swallow hard and search the produce section. There are people everywhere. I push my cart forward and move away. I could yell out for help. I almost do.

But just as soon as I get the courage, Jack Mooney is gone, disappearing into the sea of people just as easily as he’d manifested himself at my side.

Instinct tells me I should leave my cart, call Greg, call the police, run out of that store. But for what? What am I going to say? That Jack Mooney hit some fruit against the side of the display? As rattled as I am, even I’m aware how ridiculous this sounds. No one is going to take me seriously.

I rush to grab the rest of the items on my list, while constantly looking over my shoulder. I think about Greg and what he’ll say, and I decide to speak to the manager of the store. I’ll explain to him what happened. Surely destroying merchandise is a problem. Surely their security footage will prove my story. This way, the police will get involved. It will prove that Jack Mooney is following me, and that he is unstable.

The manager, a middle-aged man who looks like he hasn’t slept in days, regards me with disdain, as though I have taken him away from a very important task. As I explain the situation, his face remains impassable, but he lets me speak, and he does not interrupt. Once I’ve gotten the story out, he shakes his head. Because of privacy laws, only members of law enforcement can request security footage, and even then they need a subpoena. Damaged apples, he assures me, are not worth the time it would take him to do the paperwork. As he explains it, I realize how idiotic the conversation sounds. Like a proper “Karen,” as they’re calling it these days. The conversation wastes nearly twenty minutes I don’t have, not to mention some of my frozen items have thawed.

As I check out, I text Greg about the situation. The man scanning my groceries surprises me when he clears his throat. Then he says, “You shouldn’t let your children play alone in the park. Unsupervised. It’s dangerous.”

When I glance up from my phone, my neighbor, Mrs. Crump’s son, is staring back at me. I hadn’t recalled him working here, but then it’s possible I’ve never paid that much attention.

“You saw them?” I ask. “When?”

He sort of shrugs and keeps scanning my items. For a moment, I can’t figure out whether he saw them or he’s speaking hypothetically. His voice is very matter of fact, almost robotic. He doesn’t really look me in the eye. I’m aware that he is affected by a learning or mental disability, and a thought passes: His job must be difficult having to deal with the public every day.

“With my husband, you saw them? In the park?”

He only shrugs again. This time he refuses to make eye contact. He stares at the monitor.

I wonder if maybe