The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Four

CHAPTER 4

Gray.

Abigail turned all shades of color before fading into an ashen gray. Green eyes wide, she shot to her feet, and the thick book she held crashed to the oak floor with a sharp thud.

Her hands gathered at her stomach, where she fisted the thick black sweater. "You," she breathed.

"Me," he replied plainly, fighting the smirk that tugged at his mouth. Amused, he stepped closer and recovered the fallen book. He tucked the spilled music sheets back within the leather cover and straightening; he set it on top of a crate stuffed with records.

Abigail remained gray.

"Your book?" he motioned with a tilt of his head.

After a moment, Abigail broke from her mental pause enough to shake her head. "It–it–it isn't mine." Her stare darted all around as if to catch the eye of another store visitor.

Marcus trailed her gaze, perplexed. Didn't she want him there? She'd wanted him there that morning, having searched for him, called for him. Yet there, under the florescent lights that hummed in the silence, she practically sent out smoke signals. She returned her bemused attention to Marcus, visibly shaken, shivering, in fact. She reached for the book and clutched it tightly against her chest.

"Pardon me," a voice broke in from behind. The older man Abigail had greeted at the front of the store stepped beside her. Mr. C. Owens, Marcus noted on his nametag.

"Is this man bothering you?" he asked Abigail, his eyes trained squarely on Marcus.

Abigail gasped. She clenched the book tighter, digging her nails deeper into the leather cover. Her mouth moved convulsively in search of words, but no words came, just intermittent stutters of confusion.

"You mean—you mean you can see him?" she asked finally, touring her gaze between Marcus and Mr. Owens.

Marcus suppressed a smile, but his face reddened nonetheless. It wasn't that she was looking for help before rather confirmation. She wanted to know if he was really there.

Mr. Owens' eyes narrowed and he reached a hand to her shoulder. "Abigail, are you feeling okay?"

She swiveled away. "I need to know if you can see him. Tell me he's here." She turned to him. "Tell me you see him standing right there, black coat, black hair, pale—standing right there?"

Mr. Owens' brows gathered. "Why wouldn't I see him? Not only do I see him now, but I've been watching him lurking behind shelves, watching you." He turned to Marcus. "I suppose you followed her here, too. I don't know where you came from, son, but I suggest you leave this young lady alone."

Marcus stared at Mr. Owens levelly, replaying his words in his head. 'I've been watching him lurking behind shelves...'

How was that even possible? How could Mr. Owens have noticed him before he'd willed himself seen? Numb, Marcus assessed the man. For him, spotting a liar was as easy as lying itself. Mr. Owens was not lying. That only left one prospect, but before Marcus could dissect the possibility, Abigail sucked in a breath and tore him from the thought.

"You've been following me," she echoed. As the weight of this settled on her, she shifted back, adjusted her scarf higher, and clutched the book tighter. Emotions chased each other across her features, from shock to embarrassment, until her glare skewered Marcus. "So it was you then. You were there this morning in my room. You didn't say anything, but I felt you. You were there!"

A choking sound exploded from Mr. Owens. "That's more than I need to hear. I'm calling the police this instant. Come, Abby." He reached for her.

"You can't be serious. I can assure you, sir. I have no need to go lurking about girls' bedrooms." Marcus crossed his arms over his chest, smug. "Certainly not hers."