Mysterious Man

She mills around the little coffee shop. As much as the owner wouldn’t like to, admit it. The shop is dying. Other shops down the street have closed because of a parking garage being built cross the road.

She opens her journal, quick to jolt down her thoughts. She’s hoping to be a writer one day. She’s been told to write every idea that comes to mind. Leaving her with a little notebook full of random character descriptions and one liners.

The ding of the doorbell brings her away from her writing. She slams her book shut and shoves it into her apron that hangs off of her thin hips. She doesn’t want to get in trouble again for ‘ignoring customers’, she needs this job too much.

A middle-aged man strides in with a briefcase. His hair wild from the wind. He tucks himself into a table by the window, watching the people that stroll past. His shoulders are stiff as he opens his laptop. It’s normal for people to work at the tables. But he isn’t one of the regulars that occupies the café. It’s not every day a new person wanders into the café. He slowly types, but his eyes never leave the window. She wonders if his eyes ever dry out from how wide he keeps them open.

She gradually approaches him to take his coffee order. His wide-eyed stare sending a shiver up her shine. He doesn’t acknowledge her until she reaches the edge of his table. “What can I get for you?”

“Do you have green tea?” He asks finally making eye contact. She’s taken aback by the darkness behind them. She swallows. Keep it together June.

“Of course, if you need the Wi-Fi password it’s written on the board,” she recites the normal line of delivery. People mainly come for the free Wi-Fi, she quickly got used to the constant questions. So, she added it to her memorized lines she says every day. Disappearing behind the counter, she’s quick to steep the man’s tea. She tries to ignore the stare that burns the back of her neck. The man's attention has shifted from the people passing by the window to her. She knew something about him was off.

Is this what it’s like to have a stalker?

Don’t be dramatic June.

She straightens herself, walking back to his table. His eyes follow her the whole way back to his table. She gently sets his cup down and clears her throat. “Anything else?”

“June?” She’s surprised he knows her name but remembers the name tag clipped to her shirt. She fights an eye roll. Customers calling her by her name makes her skin crawl. She doesn’t like it when people pretend to know her. Just drink your tea and get out.

“Yes?” She plays along.

“You look just like your daddy,” he says. Eyes wide, she studies his face. She doesn’t want to play this game anymore. How does he know her Dad? Daddy’s been dead for years.

“Who are you?” She hisses. People haven’t asked her questions about her dad for years. She doesn’t want to be a part of any more news reports. Let him rest in peace. He raises an eyebrow, sliding a white envelope towards her.

“This is for you,” he states. Ignoring the harshness of her tone. Turning on her heel, she walks back to the counter. She doesn’t like someone pretending to know her dad. Grandma promised the questions and faking would die down after a couple of years. It’s been seven but the murder is still the talk of the town. All the more reason to get the hell out of here. The doorbell dings again. Taking a breather, she prepares herself for another customer.

No new customer entered the shop. She met with just an empty table and an untouched cup of tea. The sun makes the white of the envelope glow. Tucked under his cup. Crossing the small room, she grabs the cup and the envelope. No escaping this. She’s used to the business cards being left behind. Random number scrawled into pieces of paper. But never an envelope.

She drinks the tea. No need to waste it.

Settling back into her resting place behind the counter. She returns to brainstorming in her little notebook. Or at least tries to. The envelope calls to her from its spot in her apron. She doesn’t want to open it, but her curiosity gets the best of her.

Losing the fight, she pulls the envelope out, ripping the flap open. She pulls out a folded paper. She’s seen something like this before. A will. Last one she saw was her Dad’s. Why did he leave his will? Her eyes scan the words, taking in the situation's entirety. Her name is written in as sole beneficiary. To receive everything from a man she doesn’t know. How does that make sense?

Picking up the envelope her fingers squish against something else tucked inside. Flipping the envelope upside down a bunch of hundred dollar bills rubber-banded together fall out. She counts the money. It's twenty thousand dollars.

Her eyes scan over the address to his estate. She doesn’t want things she doesn’t deserve. This man must have made a mistake.

She’s quick to remove her apron and tuck it under the counter when the next worker arrives. She flees the shop. She hadn’t planned on seeing him again when she thought he was just another reporter. But she has to go to him. Tell him he has been mistaken.

Pulling her purple jacket tighter around her, she sets off down the sidewalk. Flagging down a taxi, she slips into the backseat, pleased to get out of the cold. She speaks the address to the driver. Wincing at the cost of the drive. She might have to walk home.

The cab rolls to a stop after passing the fiftieth tree. Handing the driver cash, she slips back into the cold. The engine of the car growls as the wheels roll down the street.

Checking the address, she begins the slow trek up the long driveway. She can’t help but stare in awe at the perfectly trimmed rose bushes lining the concrete. The steps creak under the weight of her foot when she reaches the porch. She pushes on glancing at the porch swing, imagining her feet swaying as she reads in it on a summer day.

Shaking the thought from her mind. She knocks on the hardwood door. Waiting a minute, she bangs her fist against the door again. She slaps her palm against the door this time. The skin of her hand tingles the more she hits the door. Scanning the door frame, she rings the doorbell. She can hear the faint ring of the bell echo inside the house.

“Hello?” She shouts at the door. Her finger hurts from pressing the button so hard.

Nobody comes.

Glancing over her shoulder, cars passing by on the street. Nobody questioning the girl screaming at the door.

You need to get inside. Her mind pushes. Slamming her fist against the door again. Her stomach flips, a wave of nausea sending bile up her throat. Something doesn’t feel right.

Walking down the porch, she presses her face against a window. Cupping her hands around her eyes to see inside. Her eyes find a gap in the curtain showing her the large kitchen. Making her way back to the door, she tries the doorknob. The knob clicks and the hinges creak as the door sways open.

Its unlocked?

Pushing down the worry in her gut, she takes a cautious step onto the carpeted floor. “Hello?” Her voice echoes down the empty hall. Moving her eyes around the living room. The coat of the man is thrown over the back of the couch and his suitcase is ditched against the wall.

If he’s home, why not answer the door? Her question echos around her skull. Feet sinking into the plush carpet, she walks into the living room. Shattered glass litters the floor, the wind whistles through a hole swaying the curtain.

Her fingers the pepper spray attached to her key chain. Many dark nights of walking home after work pushed her to buy it. Too many creepy men watching her as she made her way to the bus stop.

She walks back to the hallway notices a door open at the end. Is there someone else in the house? Maybe you should call the police June. The voice in her head pesters her. Quick steps bring her to a knife block in the kitchen. Pulling out the biggest one, pausing to admire the glint of light off the sharp point, she heads back down the hallway. Knife in one hand and pepper spray in the other.

She holds her breath, closing the space between her and the door.

She chokes back a scream, dropping the knife and spray to the ground with a thud. The man lays back in his chair. Throat painted in red. Blood oozes from the slash in his neck. Bile rises in her throat; she swallows, trying to stop it. Hunching over she can’t stop the green tea from coating the floor. Once she’s finished she straightens herself out. Using the back of her hand, she wipes her lips.

Call 911. The voice echoes. She glimpses a photograph tucked into a cherry wood bookcase on the right wall. She could recognize that face anywhere. Her Dad with his arm thrown around the shoulders of the man lying dead in front of her.

He knew daddy. Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she dials 911. The dial tone echoes in her head as she presses the phone to her ear.

“911, what your emergency?” a voice floats through the speaker.

“The-there’s been a murder,” she whispers, watching the red blood slowly soak through the white collar of his shirt.

“What happened? Can you tell me where you are?” The voice questions. June recites the address from memory—almost as if she’s lived here before.

“I just found him. The door was open,” June offers more, but not much. The woman tells her to stay on the line. She stands in the office's opening. Like a car crash, she can’t look away. A little black notebook sits in the middle of the desk. Her name is written across the front in silver cursive.

Her legs move before her mind tells them to. Snatching the little book from the desk, she flips it open. It’s full of the same cursive adorning the front cover.

June, if this book has found its way to you. I have died. I’m sure you would like to know how I know your Father. He was a great man, and I promised to keep an eye on you. I’m sorry we had to meet this way…