This new woman is in the pharmacy department, dropping off a prescription.
Feigning interest in an Ace bandage display, Casey watches her approach the counter. She’s alone, and she does have dark red hair, though that’s where the resemblance stops. She’s tall, curvy, and olive--skinned with Mediterranean features. But there’s something about her: something about the way she walks, about the facial expression that radiates . . . goodness.
But you’re not good, are you? And nobody knows that but you . . . and me.
An old man with a walker is heading in the same direction. Many -people would have skirted around him, but the redhead takes her time, allowing him to get to the counter first. She waits patiently while he searches his pockets for his prescription bottles, at least half a dozen of them.
Seeing this, Casey nods with satisfaction.
When it’s the woman’s turn to hand over the prescription, the pharmacist checks the shelves. “I have it in stock, but it’s going to be about fifteen minutes. Do you want to wait for it or come back tomorrow?”
She’ll wait. She isn’t in a rush. Good.
Casey leaves her behind in the pharmacy department, finds a cart, and maneuvers it awkwardly, tossing in enough items to fill several bags. The clock is ticking. There’s a line at the single checkout lane.
Fifteen minutes . . . fifteen minutes . . .
At last, the cashier rings up the items, asking, “Do you need a hand getting out to your car?”
“No, thank you.” Casey balances on the crutches and hands over cash.
“Are you sure?” According to her name tag, the cashier’s name is Althea and she wants to know how she may help you.
“Positive,” Casey says briskly, silently answering the name tag’s printed question: You may help me by moving a little faster, handing over my change, and then forgetting you ever saw me.
The redhead from the pharmacy appears, heading toward the front of the store.
Althea persists: “I can call someone to—-”
“No, I’m fine.” The words come out too sharply, and Althea frowns. She painstakingly takes a -couple of bills and coins from the drawer and starts to hand it over in an agonizingly unhurried manner.
Casey grabs the cash, thrusting it into the back pocket that doesn’t contain a wad of dry cleaning plastic before wrestling the crutches and cart toward the door, a few steps behind the redhead.
Outside, sleet falls from the night sky and a gusting wind propels a wayward store flyer across the parking lot. The woman hastily puts up the hood of her jacket, obliterating the view of that glorious red hair, which gives Casey momentary pause.
Maybe she isn’t the right stand--in.
Stand--in—-that’s how Casey has come to think of the women, like an almighty casting director who aims to spare the leading lady until opening night.
I decide who gets to live or die on any given day. It’s all up to me. I control their fates.
Maybe there’s someone else, someone better . . .
No. It’s now or never. Casey has to leave town first thing tomorrow morning, and there will be no extending the stay and no coming back for her. Those are important rules, self--imposed and designed to stay one step ahead of the authorities.
One step? Try miles. They’re so far behind they have yet to connect any of the stand--ins to each other.
The new candidate pauses to zip her jacket, allowing Casey to catch up to and then pass her, making a show of clumsiness with the cart and crutches, stumbling and nearly falling.
“Whoa—-do you need a hand?” she asks.
Casey turns with a relieved smile. “That would be great. I’m still getting used to moving around on these things. Guess I didn’t realize it would be so hard to push a cart.”
“Here, I’ve got it.” She grabs the handle. She’s not wearing any rings, and the skin on her hands looks soft and smooth. Casey imagines her rubbing almond--scented lotion into them; imagines the fingers clutching and clawing, the nails broken, knuckles raw and bloodied.