Night Shift (Book 1, the Night Shift series)

Chapter Twenty-nine

The hotel room was dark. Daniel rested his hand on the empty space in bed beside him. He pictured Mary's hair splayed across the pillow and groaned softly. What the hell was he doing? She wasn't even human! Besides, she could barely tolerate being in the same room with him.

The alarm clock beeped. "Oh, shit!" He whipped back the covers and ran to the shower.

Combing his fingers through his wet hair, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, then grabbed his backpack and raced out to his first errand.

Daniel walked into the security office and stopped short, startled by the person standing in front of the wall of monitors. He stared at the man wearing the fedora and trench coat. "Can I help you?"

The man pulled his attention away from the video screens. He chuckled, then said, "I'm Mr. Travis." He smiled behind the horn-rimmed glasses and extended his hand. "Daniel, right? I met you while Mr. Hadley was giving me a tour."

Daniel shook his hand. "Right, sorry."

"Quite impressive video coverage," Mr. Travis said. "It's like eyes are watching the store all the time."

More like ears are listening, Daniel thought. He rubbed the back of his neck, not sure what to do next. The silence was starting to make him uncomfortable, but leaving the office felt wrong. "Um, Mr. Travis, what are you doing in the security office?" he asked.

"I'm waiting to see Mr. Hadley," he said, patting a brown leather satchel lying sideways on the desk. "I have no official capacity. But the safety of the store is of great interest to me and the people I work for."

Daniel remembered what Mr. Oliver said about the insurance company planning on replacing the security officers with more technological equipment. He said, "It's the usual basic setup every store has, right?"

Mr. Travis produced a white cloth from his pocket. He took off his glasses and began to polish them. "Almost too basic. Tell me, how old you are?"

"Eight—nineteen," he stammered. "Why?"

"Part of my market research deals with anticipating trends. Particularly a consumer of your age demographic."

"Market research? I thought you were from the insurance company."

Mr. Travis put his glasses back on. He pulled out a business card and offered it to Daniel.

Daniel's mouth fell open. "You work for Consumers Plus," he said. "What does a big-box chain want with Willard's?"

Mr. Travis straightened some papers escaping from the bulging briefcase. "I'm only doing some preliminary consulting."

"About what exactly?" Daniel visualized the one-storey warehouse with fluorescent lighting bouncing off every crammed surface. An uncomfortable sensation came over him, imagining processed cheese slices and car tires on display in place of the Confectionery.

"I believe in doing my research," Mr. Travis explained, patting the brown satchel again. "In fact, the history of Willard's is very intriguing. You may be interested to know the store used to be a vaudeville—"

"—theatre," Daniel finished. "Everyone knows that." He couldn't explain why he was acting so defensive.

"Yes, but the story of Willard's goes back farther."

"Really?" Daniel let the silence linger. He thought of Mary's mysterious existence. "How so?" he asked.

Mr. Travis smiled. "The store's founder, James Willard, was the son of a wealthy shipping merchant, George Willard. Every account of the business tycoon paints him as a self-made millionaire, but he was also blue blooded—family home on the Upper East Side."