Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Chapter Six
ELI
Sylvie was hanging on by a thread. She took one last sip from the can of Coke, set it in the cup holder, and reached for the door handle.
“I’m good. Let’s go.”
I appreciated the backbone, but she was lying. Sylvie was so far from good. She was exhausted, coming to grips with the fact that she’d lost her home and someone wanted to kill her. And the detective had been an asshole right down to that parking ticket. I wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
She drew in a quick breath and held it for a beat before letting it out in a rush. As she did, her spine straightened, and her chin lifted. She brushed the back of her hand against her cheek—still faintly smeared with dirt from the night before—and shoved open the door.
It appeared she could take a little more.
I moved to follow. My gut said I needed to stick close to Sylvie’s side. Because she was about to fall apart or because she was in danger? My gut wasn’t saying. It was probably both. I closed my fingers around her elbow, guiding her through the other shoppers to the carts and wondering exactly how painful this process was going to be.
I wasn’t much of a shopper. Online was generally my thing, unless we were talking electronics or outdoor gear. I wasn’t looking forward to the time it would take to restock everything she needed, but it had to be done, considering all she owned was in the mostly empty backpack she carried.
Sylvie gripped the cart, bracing herself, and flashed me a bright grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s get in and out. I’d kill someone for a shower and clean clothes.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“Don’t get in my way,” she warned, and before I could make a sarcastic reply, she was off like a bullet.
She hit the women’s clothing department first, as it was next to the carts, grabbing a fascinating assortment of clothes: two pairs of jeans, two short-sleeve T-shirts, two sweaters, a hoodie, two long-sleeve T-shirts, a pair of black pants, and a simple dark blue dress. Two more shirts got tossed into the cart as she walked by them, pausing only to check the sizes. It didn’t take me long to see that with this small selection of clothing, she could fit in almost any environment, from professional to casual, just by trading around pieces. Smart.
A few more steps into the next section, and she stocked up on underwear, bras, and something to sleep in. I tried not to hover too close there, not wanting to be a weird creeper who watched her pick out her underwear.
It was impossible not to notice she had a penchant for black. And lacy.
She didn’t bother with shoes until I commented, “You going to wear those Chuck Taylors with that dress?”
The cart came to a sudden stop, and Sylvie looked down at the faded, dusty gray sneakers she wore. “Good point. Thanks.” She swung the cart to the left, her lips pressed together, the lines bracketing her mouth pale, showing the strain she refused to accept.
This woman was tough. I still wasn’t sure I liked having a partner—definitely not a civilian—but I had to admire her grit.
She managed to find a pair of black low-heeled shoes that would go well enough with the semiprofessional outfits she’d grabbed, and we were done with shoes. We slowed at the electronics section, then kept going.
“What do you need?” I asked, looking behind us at the aisles of tablets, phones, and other devices.
Sylvie glanced back. “A laptop, but I’m not going to buy one here. I’ll figure that out later.”
“You good for cables and chargers?” I asked.
“Those I have,” she said. “I always keep a set in my backpack. Too many battery emergencies.”
“Good thinking,” I said, again admiring her forethought.
From there, we swung around to toiletries, and I prepared myself for a wait. But again, she surprised me. It was fascinating watching her stand in front of the makeup section. She scanned up and down, left to right, stopped, grabbed something, scanned again, grabbed something else. She knew exactly what she wanted and where to find it. Moving on, she tossed everything she needed in the cart, from a toothbrush and toothpaste to lotion, shampoo, deodorant, and stuff for her hair.
Less than twenty minutes after we’d entered the store, we had a cart half full, right down to the functional duffel-slash-backpack she’d grabbed in the luggage department.
“This will get me through for now,” she said, pushing the cart in the shortest line.
“There’s a washer-dryer in the safe house,” I added helpfully.
“Sweet. Then this will definitely hold me for a while.”
We fell into silence as we waited, Sylvie leaning on the cart, her shoulders rounding forward as the distraction of shopping faded, and she could no longer hold back her fatigue. I had the weird impulse to rub her back, to run my palm up that rounded spine, offering comfort or support. Or whatever. I didn’t know. I shoved my half-lifted hand in my pocket. Sylvie wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t a lover. Not even a client, really.