‘Sorry!’ I blurt, the box tumbling from my hand. The plastic casing creates a deafening clatter when it meets the floor, the box jumping around at my feet. And another pair of feet, too. Feet I don’t recognise. I don’t like the chill creeping up my spine, nor the sense of vulnerability that suddenly engulfs me.
‘My apologies.’ The man’s voice is posh and he’s wearing an expensive suit. He’s bending down to pick up the box before I can register his face, and he spends a few seconds resting on his haunches, looking at the pregnancy test, spinning it in his hand repeatedly while humming his interest. I haven’t seen his face yet, only the back of his head as he remains crouched at my feet. I definitely don’t recognise the grey-flecked hair, yet something is screaming that he knows me. He had every intention to be in this aisle with me – the aisle mainly full of women’s toiletries. I may be in a busy supermarket, people everywhere, but I can feel danger thick in the air around us.
The stranger lifts his face as he rises. His eyes are bordering black and harbouring all sorts of unspoken threats. He has a scar that runs from the centre of his right cheek all the way down to the corner of his mouth, and his thin lips curve into a fake smile, deepening it. It’s a smile that’s intended to lead me into a false sense of security.
‘I believe this is yours.’ He hands me the box, and I will my hands to stop shaking when I take it. I know I’ve failed in my attempts when he raises a sharp eyebrow, still keeping a hold of the box as I accept, probably absorbing my trembles.
My eyes drop, no longer able to meet the harshness of his stare. ‘Thank you.’ I gulp back my fear and sidestep him, but he moves with me, blocking my path. I clear my throat, anything to get the strong assertiveness I’m desperately searching for and that I desperately hope fools him. ‘Excuse me.’ I step to the other side this time, and so does he, letting out a little chuckle.
‘We don’t seem to be going anywhere fast, do we?’ He moves in, getting way too close to my personal space, doubling my fretfulness.
‘No,’ I agree, attempting again to dodge him and, yet again, getting blocked. Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly lift my eyes until they meet his face. He’s the epitome of evil. It’s screaming from every single fibre of his ominous being, and it has me wilting on the spot. He smiles down at me and reaches out, taking a stray tendril of my hair and twirling it in his fingers. I freeze, immobilised by terror.
He hums thoughtfully . . . darkly . . . sinisterly. Then he dips and brings his mouth close to my ear. ‘Sweet girl,’ he whispers. ‘We finally meet.’ I jump back on a gasp, my hand flying to my hair and brushing away the traces of his breath while he remains slightly dipped, a malevolent sneer pulling at the edges of his thin lips as he regards me closely.
‘Olivia?’ I hear my name being spoken in the distance, unease in the familiar tone, and watch as the stranger straightens and casts his eyes over my shoulder, that smirk widening. Spinning on the spot, every breath leaves my lungs when I see Miller striding quickly towards me, his face straight but a wealth of emotion in his clear eyes – relief, fear, caution . . . anger.
‘Miller,’ I breathe, energy surging through my dead muscles and firing my legs into action, taking me a few paces forward until I’m hiding in his chest, my arms bunched between our bodies. He’s quivering. Everything about this situation is shrieking hazard.
Miller’s chin is resting on the top of my head, one arm holding me tightly against him, and there’s a stone-cold silence amid the hype of activity around us, like we’re stuck in a bubble and no one except the three of us are aware of the peril and hostility polluting the supermarket air. I don’t have to look to know he’s still behind me; I can feel his presence as well as I can feel Miller trying to squeeze some comfort into me, and the hardness of Miller’s tense muscles against me is a clue. So I remain concealed in my comfort zone.
It feels like a lifetime before I feel Miller relax a little, and I chance a peek, looking over my shoulder. The man is strolling down the aisle, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, browsing the shelves like he frequents the supermarket daily. But just like Miller, he looks out of place.
‘Are you OK?’ Miller asks, placing me at arm’s length and scanning my blank face. ‘Did he touch you?’
I shake my head, thinking it very unwise to tell him anything that could set my human bomb ticking. I don’t think I need to, anyway. Miller knows that man and he knows what I’ve just encountered without my confirmation. ‘Who is he?’ I finally ask the question that I really don’t want to know the answer to, and if I go by the pained look on Miller’s face, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell me. Or confirm it. He’s the immoral bastard.
I’m not sure whether Miller sees me make my silent conclusion or whether he simply doesn’t want to settle it, but my question goes unanswered and he’s quickly pulling his phone from his pocket. One push of a button and a few seconds later, Miller’s talking down the line. ‘Time’s up,’ he says simply, before hanging up and making a grab for my hand.
But he pauses his urgent string of movements when something catches his attention.
Something in my hand.
Every defeated bone in my body gives up on me. I make no attempt to hide what I’m holding. I make no attempt to conjure up an excuse. He’s blank, just gazing down at the box for the longest time before he eventually lifts empty blues to my watery eyes. ‘Oh Jesus fucking Christ,’ he exhales, the tips of his thumb and index finger meeting his forehead, his eyes clenching shut.