The Stranger Next Door. Debra Webb
and moved on. Resisting the snack aisle, she strolled on to the dairy department. When she had mentally checked off the items on her list and deposited each one into her cart, she headed for the checkout counter.
Fortunately, the cashier was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She wouldn’t know Cece.
When she had rung up the final item, she looked at Cece. “That’ll be sixty-two fifty-eight.”
Uncertainty seared through her. How did she explain the credit? “Is there a manager on duty?”
The girl stared at Cece, impatience written all over her face. “Sure.” She called for the manager over the loudspeaker.
Cece ignored the people who glanced at the register and her. What if the manager on duty had no idea about the credit? Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. She should have called the attorney’s office before coming here.
“She has a question,” the cashier said, yanking Cece’s attention to the man who approached the checkout.
He was older, fifty or so, and looked vaguely familiar. Tension banded around her chest making a breath near impossible. When he frowned, her anxiety escalated.
“Cece?”
She nodded, the move jerky.
A smile propped up the corners of his mouth. “Make a note of the amount,” he said to the cashier. “The lady has a credit that will take care of the total.” To Cece he said, “Whenever you come in, just have them write the total and my name on the back of the receipt and tuck it into the till.”
Cece searched her memory banks but his name was lost to her.
“Thanks, Mr. Holland,” the cashier said, saving Cece from having to ask.
She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Holland sent her an answering nod and returned to whatever he had been doing before the cashier had summoned him to the front.
By the time the cashier had written Holland on the back of the receipt and deposited it into the till, a short line had formed behind Cece. She had her bags in her cart and was ready to run a good five seconds before the girl glanced at her and said the words that would allow her to feel comfortable making her exit, “Thanks. Come again.”
Cece was almost to the door when a female voice called out behind her, “Aren’t you that girl who killed her daddy?”
Cece did not look back, just kept going. Her focus narrowed to the old blue truck waiting for her in the parking lot. All she had to do was reach that truck, load her stuff into the passenger seat and drive away. When she had money of her own, she would go to Tullahoma or some other nearby town where people were less likely to know her. Then again, even if she had had money, the fear of her driving skills being too rusty would have kept her close to home today.
She remembered well how it was here—the way it was in most small towns—news of her return would rush along the gossip grapevine like a fire devouring dry leaves. Passenger-side door open, she placed her bags in the seat and floorboard. With the task complete, she ordered herself to breathe.
Slow, deep breath. She was okay. She would be in the truck and on her way in a minute. This first foray into public was nearly over.
For a second she considered leaving the shopping cart sitting in the middle of the lot, but the manager had been nice to her, and she shouldn’t repay him by leaving the cart where it might hit a parked vehicle or roll out onto the street and cause an accident. Besides, the cart corral was only a few steps away. The clash of metal as she slid the cart into the line of others already in there made her cringe. She wasn’t sure when the fear that someone would attack her would diminish. Learning to be on guard at all times was necessary to survival in prison. Many things had been necessary to survival—things she wanted to forget.
“Murderer!”
Cece turned around to face the woman who shouted at her...a different one from the voice that had called out to her in the store.
This woman wasn’t alone.
Cece’s heart stuttered. Three women and four—no, five—men spread out between Cece and her truck. She didn’t know any of them, but she recognized the clothes they wore. Plain, overly modest, drab in color. Salvation Survivalists. Members of her father’s following. She refused to call it a church. These people had nothing to do with God.
“We shall purge this evil from our midst!” one of the men shouted.
Cece stood perfectly still. If she ran they would only chase her. If she called out for help she would be wasting her time since there was no one to hear her.
The woman who had spoken first drew back her right arm and flung something at Cece. It struck her in the side, making her flinch at the sharp pain, before bouncing onto the asphalt.
Rock?
Memories of rocks being thrown at a helpless woman whispered through her mind.
Another rock flew at her. Hit her shoulder.
She backed up, bumped into the line of carts.
“Stone her for her grievous sin!” one of the men shouted.
Cece turned to run. She had no choice. Stones hit her back, her legs, her shoulder. When one hit her on the head, she bit her lip to prevent crying out.
Before she could take off running, a man blocked her path. Tall, dark hair...dark eyes.
She opened her mouth to scream.
He grabbed her and pulled her behind him.
“Back off,” he growled at the mob. “The police are on the way. Unless one or all of you wants to be arrested, you had better get the hell out of here.”
Cece dared to peek beyond one broad shoulder. The stones had stopped flying but the group still stood there lurking like something from a bad horror movie.
“We’re not finished,” the woman who had spoken first said, her hate-filled gaze on Cece.
The siren in the distance had the group dispersing.
Cece watched as they climbed into two SUVs and sped away. The woman—the one who appeared to be in charge—stared at Cece as they drove away.
The woman’s face didn’t trigger any memories, but she certainly knew Cece.
The idea that they had all come together suggested that the attack against her had been planned. Anger, hurt and frustration twisted inside her.
“You all right?”
Cece looked at the man who had come to her rescue and nodded. She wanted to ask his name. She wanted to ask why he had come to her aid. But she couldn’t seem to put the words together and force them beyond her lips.
The Winchester Police Department cruiser came to a rocking stop a few feet away and Cece was grateful the stranger took the initiative and explained the incident to the officer. By this time Mr. Holland had come out to the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” he asked Cece.
“Yes.” She relaxed the tiniest bit.
The police officer approached her then. “Miss Winters, would you like to come to the station and fill out a report?”
Cece shook her head. “I just want to go home, please.”
Holland turned to the officer. “I think that’s a good idea. She’s had enough excitement for today.”
The officer nodded. “I’ll let Chief Brannigan know you’re home, Miss Winters. He’ll check in on you. Be sure to let us know if you have any more trouble. The chief doesn’t tolerate nonsense like this.”
Cece found the wherewithal to thank him.
“I’ll follow her home. Make sure she gets unloaded without any trouble.”