Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 17073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
A blood-covered blade and a terrified redhead.
It’s only when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket and my car’s Bluetooth plays the ringtone that I snap back to reality. And with it, the realization that I have no idea where I am other than a long stretch of road leading far away from the city.
It’s Dante. No doubt wanting a conversation I can’t face right now. He’ll have to wait.
I kill the call and keep on cruising into the stormy night.
Maybe my salvation waits at the end of this long, lonesome road.
2
SILVER
“Look out, Crawford. The storm has landed, and we’re in for an icy night ahead.” The radio presenter’s voice crackles over every other word while I adjust the nob to clear the signal. “So lock your doors, plant your asses, and buckle in, Buttercups, because our advice is to stay where you are and listen to these groovy tunes.”
“For shit’s sake.” I slam the portable radio onto the counter next to my cash register, trying to get a grip on my encroaching anger.
Getting pissed off at a radio presenter is the silliest thing I’ve done in a long time. It’s his job to tell us the news and usher in the next song to keep his listeners entertained. But that doesn’t change the fact that I want actual, tangible answers to how bad this storm really is.
I wouldn’t have cared if I was home, but I’m stuck in my diner, and I don’t want to spend the whole night here if I don’t have to.
I knew Crawford was in for a stormy night when the clouds rolled in. And I should’ve taken my chance to get out when the first snowflakes trickled down from them. The stubborn tenacity to get my work done and have everything ready for tomorrow morning’s early birds kept me here longer than expected.
Now I’m stuck.
The only plus side to this whole thing is that Dad converted the back office into a man cave a few years back to watch sports and relax when the shop wasn’t busy. Thank God, I haven’t had the good sense to change it back to an actual office or break room yet.
As the thought crosses my mind, my cell phone starts to ring. The Caller ID reads, Dear Ol’ Dad.
Speak of the devil, as they say.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I hook the phone into the crook of my neck, using my ear to pin it to my shoulder, and get up from the counter.
“Saw on the news the storm’s worse than expected. Checking to see if you’re okay,” he says.
His caring side brings a smile to my face. No matter how big or how small a problem is, I can always count on him for support.
“I’m fine. Still at the shop, but don’t worry, I’m not going to brave it home. I’ll spend the night here.” I make my way to the main floor, move a few chairs back under their tables, and clear the tops of empty coffee mugs and straw wrappers left behind during the evening sprint.
“Anyone there with you?” Concern floods his voice.
“No. Janie and Matt left at six.” When I should have. “I had a few things that needed taking care of.”
“Well, lock the door and make sure you’re safe. Just because us sensible folk ain’t moving around in the snow doesn’t mean there won’t be bad apples out there tonight,” he orders with the intensity only a father can muster.
“Of course. I’m heading to the front door right now.” After I toss the trash and rinse out the glasses, that is.
“And if you need anything, you call me. I’m a few streets up, and I’ll bring Bucky.” One might think, with the joy he says the name Bucky, it would be our family dog or an older sibling who enjoys beating the snot out of anyone who wants to cause trouble.
However, what I’m quickly starting to realize—probably more worrying than not—is that Bucky is a rifle he has an unnatural affinity for. The funniest part is that the name is far better suited for a shotgun than a hunting rifle, but Dad has a way of subverting expectations.
“You and Bucky will be the first to know if any trouble comes my way. Promise.” I finish in the kitchen and make my way to the front room to lock up.
Through the glass door, I’m not greeted by the peaceful serenity of a snowy night. Instead, I see the bright red of brake lights and the vague outline of a pitch-black car blending in with the shadows surrounding it.
Unlike Dad, my first thought isn’t that whoever is parked outside is going to be trouble. In a town like Crawford, where Main Street is Highway 92, and the general population never exceeds four hundred and fifty people, trouble is just a made-up word from the out-of-towners.