Girl, Alone (An Ella Dark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

PROLOGUE

With her feet perched on the counter, Christine bent her head backward and eyeballed the wall clock above her.

5:32 p.m.

She spun her chair around, then pulled out her phone to double-check the time.

Ugh

, she thought,

I’m sure that clock hasn’t moved in an hour

.

It had been a forgettable day, in a forgettable town. Christine Hartwell had long known that most Friday nights were unremarkable once middle age crept in, but she never dreamt it would come to this—willingly keeping her shop open until the evening hours on the off-chance someone needed DIY supplies.

She pulled herself up and strolled out into the first aisle. Beyond the store’s stained windows, Christine watched a crimson sun descend below a cluster of trees on the other side of the bayou. The last of the day’s natural light gradually dissolved, casting a deep gray hue across the small village.

Christine’s small Louisiana town didn’t have much to offer, but it allowed her to live a simple life against a backdrop of gorgeous scenery. Sometimes, when her store was empty, she could hear the gentle trickle of the bayou outside her window; rhythmic and comforting in its serenity.

It was a life, and that was all she wanted.

She began to rearrange a small display of hacksaws in the shop window, then glanced over at the time again. There wasn’t a soul in sight, nor had there been in the past two hours.

Time to close up,

she thought.

I’ve got a life to live.

She made her way to the rear of the store to the switch which closed the exterior shutters, after which she’d leave out the fire exit behind her. She pushed down, then counted to ten. She heard the mechanical whir beyond the storeroom wall and began to contemplate what the rest of her evening might hold.

Television? Dinner? Wine? Browse for holidays I can’t afford?

But as Christine reached the count of six, something pulled her from her boredom-induced daydream.

Bang.

A startling thud on the other side of the wall.

“Oh shit.”

Had something crashed onto the shop floor? Had the shutters accidentally crushed something?

She rushed back out toward the counter and surveyed the room. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Hesitantly, she turned back around, and her peripheral vision picked up on something in the far corner.

Outside, she noticed the silhouette of someone standing next to the shop door. The half-closed shutters concealed the stranger’s face, but it was undoubtedly a male. Black jeans, well-worn shoes, the bottom half of a woolen coat.

“Hello?” she shouted. “Who’s that?”

No answer. The silhouette didn’t move an inch.

Typical,

she thought.

Someone wants something just as I’m closing.

Christine sighed, then sauntered back to the storeroom with heavy strides. She opened the shutters back up, and as they clinked into place, she heard the silhouette-man open the door. She peered her head back around the storeroom door.

There was nothing remarkable about the man, except for his sheer normalcy. Most men in bayou country flaunted that unmistakable aura of rural living; rough hands from a lifetime of manual labor, or the ingrained scent of manure in their clothes. But this man could have introduced himself as a bartender at the local dive or a banker earning six figures and Christine would have believed him either way.

She couldn’t place his age, maybe a young forty or an early-thirties who’d endured a hectic upbringing. Under other circumstances, Christine might have even found him attractive, but the fact he’d put an abrupt stop to her plans overrode all of his appeal.

He walked carelessly and without caution down aisle three, before fixating on the display of hacksaws Christine had spent so long preparing earlier that day.

“Anything I can help you with?” she asked from behind the counter. “I was just about to close. You arrived at the right time.”

No reply came. He didn’t even register that he’d heard her.

Rude

, she thought.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternal stillness, he spoke.

“Antifreeze,” he said. His voice was gentle but with a rough edge, like an ex-smoker whose vocal cords were in recovery.

“No problem. It’s up here.”

Christine pulled out a black container and dropped it on the counter. The gentleman approached and fixated his gaze on the item between them. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and pushed it across to Christine.

“Heavy-duty, fifty-fifty,” Christine said. “Will that do you?”

Two hands suddenly grabbed the container. Christine flinched, stepping back. Her heart began to pound, and suddenly, an unexplainable sense of dread filled her stomach. Outside, sunset turned to full dusk. There were no lights on in any of the other stores on her row. A ghostly fog danced at the window, bringing with it a distressing awareness of just how alone she was.

“Is that all?” she asked.

But once again, the man offered nothing in the way of a response. He retreated the way he came without collecting his five cents change, leaving Christine’s hand outstretched like a mannequin.

The man exited the store, looked in either direction, then faded into the darkness.

Christine kept her eyes glued to him as he disappeared. Before his outline completely vanished, he turned, keeping his head down, and took one last glance at Christine’s Hardware 101.

She shook her shoulders, brushing off a sensation of numbness. Composing herself, she ran back to the storeroom and closed the shutters. She reached the count of ten but kept her finger on the switch until she was positive she was barred inside.

Without natural light, the store emanated a sunburnt orange glow from the overhead lights. Christine took out the cash register and placed it inside the safe. Just as she punched the last digit of the six-number combination to lock it, she heard a strange shuffling.

A bolt of ice shot down her spine. She surveyed the floor, praying that she’d see an inquisitive mouse, a rat, a cricket.

Nothing.

Then, the same sound again. Like something was scratching along her wooden floor. Rough shoes, maybe, or a fallen screw rolling between her feet.

Bang.

A bead of sweat collected on her head. Her face began to burn. She stood in place, motionless. The sound had come from the storeroom.

I knocked something over when I was in there,

she reassured herself.

But then she heard a clunk, the recognizable tone of metal on metal.

She leaped across the counter and grabbed the nearest display model which could double as a weapon. She landed on a chisel and gripped it with a force she didn’t know she had.

Slowly, she sidestepped into the back room. Light was minimal, but everything seemed in place. Further along in her kitchen area, the boiler system chugged away, pushing water through the store’s heating system.

Was it just the boiler?

she thought.

A small wave of relief washed over her, but then Christine shifted her eyes to something lying beside the fire exit.

A container of antifreeze. Heavy-duty, fifty-fifty.

She struggled to comprehend the scene in front of her. She couldn’t find the will to scream or cry or run; she simply stood in place, wordless.

The same clothes, the same nondescript look. But this time, there was something else. He held a rifle, with the gun barrel pointing directly at her.

Terror engulfed her from head to toe. She threw the chisel at the intruder, but the object had barely left her hand before a deafening gunshot sent her sprawling to the floor. She felt her ribs shatter. Her vision failed, but she suddenly felt the familiar sensation of wood against her face.

Struggling for breath, she finally opened her eyes and found herself collapsed against her store counter.

Christine crawled and slithered away, each movement agony, blood dyeing her hands.

A foot pressed on her wrist, almost crushing it.

She looked up and finally made eye contact with the strange man she’d first seen only five minutes before. Her gaze deviated to the weapon clenched in his hands. No longer was he holding a rifle. In its place was a felling ax, raised high above the man’s head, its tapered blade glistening silver.

Christine raised her head and screamed, her cries ricocheting off the metal hardware on the shelf beside them. Tears streamed down her face as the ax came down.

And then her world went black.