Beach Thriller(24)

I scan the aisle. The colorful medicines stand in a row like tiny obedient soldiers. On one side are the orange and green bottles of NyQuil and Delsym. On the other side, I find the blue and red bottles of Advil and Tylenol.

Rule one of shoplifting: Don’t hesitate. In one swift, seamless motion, I snag what I’m after—a box of ibuprofen, eight bucks for a fifty-count.

Even though this isn’t my first rodeo, an uneasy sensation slides down my spine. I feel like someone is watching me. But when I look around, I only see an eighty-year-old woman, and she can’t see much at all.

I slip the pills into my hoodie pocket with the deftness of a skilled magician, then check over my shoulder to ensure no one noticed. So far, so good. I’m equally confident security cameras haven’t recorded me in the act. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that someone has been watching me.

I let the thought go. Rule two kicks in like a reflex: Don’t linger. I got what I came for. Time to disappear. But as I make my way for the exit, the shampoo aisle catches my eye. I know I should leave, especially with this sense of unease, but Holly has been so generous, and I’m compelled to return the favor. The bottle will simply appear in the shower. Holly doesn’t need to know the details.

Marching down the fragrant aisle, I scout out a good-quality shampoo. I have no idea what brand she uses; all I remember is her mentioning “cruelty-free.” Of course, that means I have to look at the fine print. What the hell am I thinking?

I scan the shelves for the most expensive product that comes in a small enough bottle to fit in the waistband of my pants. I grab one and glance at the back, pleased to see the little bunny symbol that verifies the company does not do animal testing. Score. I slip the container under my hoodie and head toward the door.

At last, the tightness in my throat begins to ease. The stabbing fear in my chest recedes. The door is right there; daylight is streaming through it. I hold my breath as I move closer to the exit. But the anxiety returns, washing over me like a tidal wave. Something is off, I can feel it.

I quicken my pace, breaking rule number three: Don’t panic.

As soon as I pass through the screener, I hear it—an alarm so loud and repetitive that I’m sure the blaring sound reaches Holly’s cottage. Shit. The expensive shampoo. I bet it’s tagged. I start to run, hoping to make a break for it, but someone grabs the hood of my sweatshirt, pulling me back.

“What the fuck!” I yell, whirling to face a burly man whose tight grip on my hood starts strangling me. I size him up in an instant. He’s got the red vest of an employee, and it’s tight-fitting across his stocky frame. He’s around forty with wispy strands of dark hair and beady brown eyes that bore into me from behind a pair of silver wire-frame glasses. He might not be a hulking monster like Gas Station Man, but he’s no pushover. I can’t take him on without one of us ending up bloody—and most likely, it will be me.

My only hope is to talk my way out of this. “Isn’t this like … assault?” I wheeze.

He has my hoodie twisted around in front of me, so the fabric is legit constricting my windpipe. At last the clerk releases his hold. He latches his hands to his hips, puffing himself up to look more intimidating.

I stand tall in response, acting a lot braver than I feel. It’s not good that I already have a record.

“I don’t know about that. But I do know it’s illegal to take merchandise without paying for it. It’s called stealing.” He says the last word slowly, like I’m not very bright.

I glare at him with defiance and try to deny it, to defend myself, but the words catch in my throat.

“I—ah—umm…” Maybe I’m not so bright after all. My face is burning, my palms are slimy, and I seem to have forgotten the English language.

“Excuse me, is there a problem?” says a suave voice, calling me to my senses. I look over to see a handsome older man, tall with dark, neatly styled hair. He’s dressed nice enough for a fancy luncheon, no swim trunks and sunscreen for this guy. He’s holding a pharmacy shopping bag and still has his wallet in his hand from paying at the counter.

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” the clerk snaps. “This punk just stole shit from the store.”

“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. She’s with me,” the attractive stranger says with authority. “Perhaps the cashier forgot to ring up a few items? I asked her to pick up Advil and shampoo and told her I’d pay for them at the counter.”

I perk up. I knew it! Someone was watching. He saw exactly what I took.

He looks at me, his gaze conveying a clear message: Play along. Taking out his receipt, he hands it to the manager, who examines it with care. “You see, it does appear a couple of things were forgotten. I’ll pay for the rest before we leave.” My nameless savior gives the man his credit card, along with a warning look.

One thing’s for sure—this guy has pull. The clerk grumbles, likely happy to receive payment but disappointed not to be playing the hero.

I silently follow this tall, dark stranger to the register. I offer no explanation as I pull the stolen items from their respective hiding places and set both on the counter.

A few moments later, I’m outside in the bright sunshine, afraid of what this guy might expect in return for his generosity. He’s going to be sorely disappointed.

“Hey, thanks,” I mumble, looking at my feet. I sneak a glance at him, and he seems clean-cut, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my travels, it’s that looks can be deceiving. “Why did you help me?” I want to know.