The locked shop door rattled, startling Gemma out of her focus.
She’d closed up hours ago, but had the light on so she could count skeins of wool for the taxman. That didn’t mean she was trying to invite midnight visitors.
It was a man, huddled inside a large black jacket. For an awful moment she thought it was Vincent, until she remembered, as she had so many times in the past weeks, that Vincent would never knock at her door again.
‘We’re closed!’ she hollered. What kind of absolute twit expected a town like Rainier to have a twenty-four-hour teashop?
She felt bad for him, with no sign of a scarf or hat in this cold, but she wasn’t opening the door in the middle of the night.
It was amazing how much things had changed in only a handful of months. Back in April, she’d have gone up to the door and told him to jog on. But after the police found the second body, that poor woman, Gemma’s mother had sat her down and told her to forget polite.
Forget kind. Forget helpful. The only rule that mattered now was to stay safe. She’d given her a copy of Ann Rule’s book on Ted Bundy, with passages highlighted about how he’d lured victims with plays for sympathy and requests for help.
The man pounded on the glass with his open palm. He swayed, and leaned against the window with one shoulder. He was three sheets to the wind, and she hoped it was only booze affecting his balance. He kept slapping the glass with his other hand.
Her irritation inched closer to fear…
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