“Yup.”
“And oh, my…” He stepped over to the table where her candles were displayed. She’d added several this morning with Christmas colors—red and green, silver and gold. “Look at all the new ones.”
“Made ’em this week.”
“You really are very talented.”
Ryden blushed every time he commented on her work. She hated herself for feeling flattered, especially because she knew all Tim wanted was a date. “Yeah, well,” she stammered. “I try.”
“You should show these to specialty shops. I know some.” Tim hoisted one of her larger pieces toward the fading sunlight streaming in through the window so he could better see the delicately sculpted detail work. “I’m sure they’d sell like crazy, and who knows? Maybe someday you could have your own little place.”
“Yeah, maybe. Though the economy being what it is, I doubt candles are the next big must-have item on everyone’s spartan shopping list.”
“You never know.”
“So, what kind of flowers would you like today?”
“Why won’t you let me help you?” Tim asked. “I know people who might be willing to invest.”
“Nah. I’m fine where I am, but thanks all the same.”
Tim was being pushier than usual, and all Ryden wanted was to close the shop and go home. She was tired and hungry and couldn’t wait to start work on her candles. “What’ll it be, Tim?” she asked again, trying to sound polite.
But he was apparently determined to linger, asking endless questions about every type of flower they had and taking forever to make up his mind. By the time she could start to put the bouquet together it was closing time. Magda wished them good night with the usual wink on her way out.
Ryden handed the bunch to him ten minutes later. “Well, I need to close up, so—”
“Let me walk you home.”
“Thanks, but…I prefer you didn’t.”
“Maybe next time.” Tim smiled.
“Yeah, maybe.” She walked him to the door and opened it. “Good night then, and thanks.”
“Think about my offer, okay?”
“Sure, will do.” Ryden practically shut the door on his ass and sighed with relief.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d taken care of the cash and prepped everything for the next day. She was about to lock up when she got an eerie feeling that someone was watching her. She’d never been afraid of walking alone at night, or pretty much anything else; if she’d survived five foster homes and bully foster siblings, she could handle anything. But right now, something was making her skin crawl.
“You’re imagining things.” Talking aloud to herself was an old habit, the result of living alone all her adult life. For some reason, she found it comforting, especially when she was stressed.
She scanned the street carefully before she latched the door to make sure she was alone, just in case she needed to go back inside. All the other shops around were shuttered tight, the street devoid of pedestrians. When she didn’t detect any sign of movement, Ryden locked up and walked briskly down the block. She was about to chalk it up to paranoia when the eerie feeling returned. “You’re overreacting, scaredy-cat, and need to cut down on Fearnet.” But she started to walk even faster, occasionally looking behind her. By the time she’d reached her apartment, she was out of breath.
Ryden slammed the door shut behind her and locked it, then went to the window that overlooked the street. Peering through a slit in the heavy curtain, she waited to see if someone was lurking outside. When she’d seen nothing suspicious after ten minutes, she made her way to the kitchen to defrost dinner, but the uncomfortable feeling of being watched stayed with her all night. Even her candle making didn’t stop the uneasiness; she occasionally got up to hide behind the curtain and check the street.
At two in the morning, Ryden sat down to watch TV, hoping it would calm her nerves, but she could concentrate on the sitcom about as much as she had on her candle making. She went to check the street one last time before she went to bed, and it was only then, at three a.m., that she got the first confirmation she hadn’t been imagining things.
A faint flicker in one of the long shadows in the park across the street became the silhouette of a man. “Tim? Is that you?” Could he be stalking her? She fished a pair of cheap binoculars from the chaos of her junk drawer and focused on the image. She couldn’t make out the guy’s face but was certain from his tall, hulking build that it couldn’t be Tim. After a minute or two, he sank back into the shadow of a tree and disappeared again. Without bothering to undress, Ryden turned the TV back on and settled down on the couch with a blanket to watch a Dawson’s Creek marathon.
*
Martin Graber stepped into the phone booth and impatiently dialed the number. He couldn’t wait to tell the Broker he’d hit the money pot. His hands shook from excitement as a male voice answered on the first ring. “It’s Marty,” he said. “I need to talk to the Broker.”
Her icy voice came on the line seconds later. “And?”
“Good news,” he reported. If this didn’t gain her respect, nothing would.
“About time,” the perpetually unsatisfied voice replied.
“It wasn’t easy.” He felt inflated and confident he’d done a great job. “But we found a match. She’s—”
“I want to see her tonight. If she’s a fit, the transformation can begin.”
“We need to get her first,” Marty replied. “But she’s the best candidate so far. An astonishing resemb—”
“Did I or did I not ask you to let me know as soon as you had the right woman?”
“Yes, you—”
“I don’t remember asking you to bother me until you had her. I am once again stressing the word had and not found. I don’t have time for useless pronouncements.”
“It’s not that simple,” Marty said. “We can’t just abduct her. Not if we want her to do what you need.”
“Of course not, you fool. You have to make an offer. One she can’t refuse.”
“She won’t bite,” he said. “Not from what we have on her so far. Goody Two-shoes. Straight as they come.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“She’s not into money. She doesn’t make much, but her bank account shows donations to all sorts of causes—animal shelters and rescue groups, mostly.”
“I’m rolling my eyes. Can you guess why?”
Marty hesitated, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Tougher men had died at the hands of the Broker for lesser reasons. “I checked her background. No relatives, grew up in an orphanage and, later, in foster homes. No ties with any of them. Single and no colleague or anyone in her life who matters enough to pressure her with. No drug abuse, no promiscuous behavior. Nothing. Not even a DUI.” He was satisfied with himself for being thorough.
“What does that leave you with?” the Broker asked, her calm tone more ominous than ever.
He needed an answer, even a remotely relevant one, but nothing came to him, and as the seconds ticked away he began to feel numbness in his brain. He tried to concentrate on a rock at his feet and found himself praying to it for an epiphany.
“Again,” she said evenly, “everyone has their price. Even if they don’t know it yet.”
Marty snapped his fingers. “You want me to…set her up,” he said hastily. He knew he sounded like an eager child whom the teacher had just helped find the answer, but he didn’t care. He was sure it was the right answer all the same.