Fiction
by Charles Cline
by Charles Cline“I think that man is watching us,” Miranda whispered.
Richard happened to be turning, modeling a captain’s cap designed for a child that barely fit his head, when he saw the look on her face.
He put the cap back on the shelf. “Which man?” he asked.
“By the postcards.” She leaned her head toward the rack by the street-facing window. The front section of the souvenir store was crammed with everything from toys to sunglasses, sandals to candles, to mass-scavenged seashells and starfish. The back half was a clothing store, the walls lined with quality beachwear carefully arranged on tiered shelves, complete with track lighting and a changing room. Many of the shops at Avila Beach had this beach/boutique quality.
“The old guy?” Richard asked.
“Yea
