Bound to my High School obsession

Chapter 11: Market Price

The heavy black truck slid into a parking space outside the local grocery market, the front tires bumping hard against the concrete curb. It was the next logical stop on William’s rigid Saturday morning itinerary, a place where half the town gathered to stock up for the weekend. Across the asphalt, the dark sedan smoothly glided into a spot three rows back. Its engine remained running, a faint cloud of white exhaust curling from the tailpipe, its tinted windshield facing us like an unblinking eye.

"They’re still there," I whispered, my fingers locked so tightly around the steering wheel that my wrists ached. The memory of the clean 'X' traced into the road dust on our bumper felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest.

"I see them," Anthony said from the passenger seat. He was still slumped low, his broad shoulders angled away from the window glass, but his gaze was locked onto the side-view mirror. "They aren't going to make a move in a crowded market lot in broad daylight. Go inside. Grab the usual groceries. Act like you’re planning a normal dinner. Stay where the cashiers can see you, and don't look toward the front windows."

I took a shaky breath, pulled the keys from the ignition, and stepped out into the biting wind. Walking across the parking lot felt like navigating a minefield, my spine tingling with the distinct, terrifying sensation of being watched through a lens.

The moment I pushed through the automatic glass doors of the market, the blast of warm air and the mundane scents of fried chicken and fresh produce hit me. The store was busy. Families were debating over cereal boxes, and elderly couples were navigating the bakery aisle. The sheer, aggressive normalcy of it was dizzying. I grabbed a metal shopping cart, my hands slick with cold sweat against the handle, and forced my feet to move down the first aisle.

I forced myself to go through the motions of William's standard weekly list, trying to make the cart look like that of a family preparing for a regular week. I tossed in a five-pound sack of flour, a dozen eggs, and a couple of blocks of sharp cheddar. I moved to the produce section, blindly grabbing a bag of yellow onions, a bundle of fresh cilantro, and a carton of heavy cream, my mind racing through a million terrifying scenarios. By the time I reached the pasta aisle and stared blankly at a row of marinara sauces, the cart was half-full with a heavy, grounding weight of everyday life.

Right as I picked up a jar of sauce, a sharp, piercingly familiar nasal voice sliced straight through the ambient noise of the store.

"Oh my gawd, Annabel?"

My stomach dropped into my boots. I stiffened, turning slowly as the clicking of high heels approached.

It was Chastity Vance. She looked exactly as she had on the FaceTime call—her bleached-blonde hair perfectly styled, wearing an oversized designer puffer jacket and holding an iced coffee like a scepter. She popped her gum loudly, her heavily made-up eyes scanning me from head to toe with a critical, dismissive sweep that instantly brought back every suffocating insecurity of senior year.

"It is you," Chastity squeaked, leaning on the handle of her own cart, which was completely empty except for a bottle of expensive wine and some premium hair product. "I totally thought my stylist was hallucinating when she said she saw you at the hardware store across the street. What are you even doing back here? And in William’s massive, obnoxious truck? Did you finally realize the city didn't want you?"

"I'm just taking care of some things for William, Chastity," I said, my voice clipped and flat as I tried to push my cart past her.

She smoothly maneuvered her cart to block the aisle, a patronizing smirk spreading across her glossy lips. "Oh, don't be like that. We totally need to catch up. Like, I am literally dying to know if you've run into Anthony yet. I told you on the phone, he’s totally back in the valley. Probably moping around waiting for me to call him back."

The sheer, staggering delusion in her voice would have been laughable if the stakes weren't so lethal. I risked a glance toward the front of the store, my heart hammering. Outside, a man was shielding Anthony from a bullet; across the street, a dark sedan was tracking our every turn. And here was Chastity, loudly staging a high school turf war over a man she hadn't touched in four years.

"I don't have time for this, Chastity. I have to get my groceries and leave," I said, my voice rising slightly in frustration.

"Uh, someone's touchy," Chastity scoffed, crossing her arms. "I'm just saying, Annabel, don't get any weird ideas just because you're back in town. Anthony and I had something real. He was totally obsessed with me senior year. He used to drive past my house every night after track practice. He’s a total animal when he wants to be, trust me. A girl like you wouldn't even know what to do with a guy like that."

I stared at her, a strange, bitter armor suddenly settling over my chest. The fear was still there, but the petty high school drama felt completely hollow compared to the raw, needy intensity I had seen in Anthony's eyes just an hour ago in the kitchen. I knew the truth now. I knew about the window glass. I knew about the track sprints.

"He wasn't driving past your house, Chastity," I said softly, my voice dripping with a cold, quiet certainty that made her smirk falter. "Your house was on the loop back to the highway. He was just going home."

Chastity’s face flushed a sharp, angry pink. "Excuse me? You don't know anything about him—"

Before she could launch into another loud tirade, my eyes drifted past her shoulder toward the massive glass storefront of the market. My breath caught, the words dying in my throat.

One of the men from the dark sedan had walked up to the building.

He was wearing a heavy, non-descript canvas jacket, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't shopping. He was leaning casually against the interior coin-operated vending machines right by the exit doors, his eyes slowly and methodically scanning the checkout lanes. He was keeping tabs on me, making sure the asset didn't try to slip out through a back delivery door.

The invisible target on my back suddenly felt blindingly bright.

"Annabel, are you even listening to me?" Chastity snapped, stamping her heel against the linoleum.

"I have to go," I whispered, not breaking eye contact with the man by the door. Without waiting for her response, I violently rammed my cart past hers, the metal scraping with a loud, jarring screech that drew stares from two nearby shoppers.

"Hey! Total b***h move, Annabel!" Chastity yelled after me, her voice echoing down the aisle, but I didn't care.

I pushed the cart toward the nearest open register, my chest heaving as I began unloading the haul. I grabbed the heavy sack of flour, the carton of cream, the onions, and the blocks of cheese, setting them down rapidly before adding the final jar of pasta sauce to the pile on the moving conveyor belt. The man by the vending machines didn't move. He just stood there, his cold, calculating gaze locking onto me the moment I stepped into the checkout lane. He watched me hand the cashier a crisp hundred-dollar bill from William’s stash. He watched the clerk bag the groceries.

My knees felt like water as I walked toward the automatic exit doors, forced to pass within mere inches of him. As the glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, letting the freezing Wyoming air rush over my face, I heard him shift behind me, his heavy boots trailing a deliberate three paces back.

He was escorting me out. The trap was closing, and my only sanctuary was the black truck idling in the middle of the lot, with a silent predator waiting in the passenger seat.