The Seer

Chapter 2

People just had no clue. Selfish, loud, demanding, and totally annoying. And that was just the beginning.

Jake shoved a lock of lank, black hair off his forehead, scanning the dusty, sagging shelves for the name written on the small piece of scratch paper he held.

Take this lady, for instance. She comes in, doesn't spend any time trying to find what she's looking for on her own, and bugs him about it. Then she spells the author's name, telling him at least five times that there's no 'N' between the 'I' and the 'S,' and stands there as if she were the queen of the world.

Yeah, well this isn't the Titanic, lady. He found the 'W' section and scanned through it quickly. And you're no Kate Winslet.

He saw the book the lady had asked about. At the same moment, an image of her entitled, demanding face flashed through his brain.

Screw that.

He straightened and pushed the hair from his forehead again, the action automatic.

Emerging from the aisle, he caught the lady's eye. "Sorry, ma'am. We don't have it."

Grim satisfaction filled him as disappointment scrunched her face. She nodded, mouthed her thanks, and made the store a lot better by leaving. The bell above the glass door jingled too loudly; it felt like the sound formed into slivers that stabbed his ears.

Why don't we just get one of those beeping lasers or light things?

But a used bookstore and 'sundries' shop never had the money for that kind of thing. Which also meant that his crappy job never paid him enough to do anything but pay rent and eat pizza, with the odd movie or book thrown in. And of course Dad didn't have any money to help.

He kicked a table leg as he watched the lady go. Mom dead and Dad in San Quentin.

What a recipe for success.

He trudged toward the counter and, snagging his book from next to the register, dropped onto the stool. He pulled out his bookmark and carefully placed it on the counter, letting a tight smile stretch his lips at the sight of the label he'd put on the bookmark. "Jake's bookmark. Only touch if your IQ is above 140." The others hadn't appreciated that, but who cared? They'd been stealing his carefully collected comic-themed bookmarks for a while. Served them right if they felt insulted.

Jake turned back to his book. Hopefully no more jerks would come in. At least for a while.

Movement caught his eye. He glanced up to see a figure—judging by the burly shoulders, it had to be a man—step out into the afternoon sunlight, the bell above the door again jabbing at his eardrums.

How did I not see that guy, or at least hear him come in?

Jake cracked his book open again, but couldn't concentrate. Curiosity about the dark figure wouldn't let go. How had he not known that the guy was in here? And had he come from the back of the store, where all of that old junk was? They never sold any of that stuff.

Wait. Maybe the guy had stolen something.

He glanced toward the back of the store. Did it even matter? Who even kept track of that stuff? He hunched over his book again, but the thought stuck with him. Had something been stolen?

Not sure of what he was doing, or why he was doing it, Jake stood. Something tugged at him, drawing his attention to the back room where the antiques were. Not a noise—but he felt as if he could take a few steps and he would be able to hear something. Or maybe see it.