Cleo Coyle - On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1)

S HE was a dancer. Young, slender, pretty, but not particularly beautiful. And not special.

From the corner of Hudson Street, the stalker watched her prancing about behind the tall French doors, sweeping, mopping, wipingthe gleaming wood floor, the marble-topped tables, and the silver espresso machine.

The hour was late. The place was closed, but the coffeehouse lights beyond the tall clear windows shone with a disturbing intensity, harsh beacons that burned through the thin layer of fog rolling in off the cold, dismal river just a few blocks away.

With tentative movements, the stalker followed those beacons, descending the curb into the empty street. Wisps of pale mist flowed in waves across the gray cobblestones, sweeping the stalker along in its ethereal current like some passenger on a ferryboat bound for the underworld.

Reaching the other side, the stalker moved onto the wide, clean sidewalk. From above, a faux gaslamp buzzed and sputtered. How appropriate, thought the stalker, and how typical. The vile little streetlight had the faade of class, but inside it was fakethe forced flickering of a cheap electric light, an inferior imitation of the real thing

Just like Anabelle.

Nothing special.

The four-story red brick townhouse that held the coffeehouse was no different, the stalker decided. Just one of many in this historic area. Common. Ordinary.

Below the arched front window, an antique wrought-iron bench sat bolted to the sidewalk. Seeing it, the stalker sank to its cold, hard surface.

Breathing became difficult. No longer unconscious but an intentional thing. Purposeful, planned, and premeditated

IN THEN OUT.

OUT THEN IN.

Deliberate counts. Deliberate breaths. Wave after wave until finally the stalker rose and once again made an approach.

The Village Blends door loomed large. Beveled glass in an oak wood frame. Pulsing music leaked through. The intense aroma of roasting coffee.

The stalkers knuckles rapped: One knock. Two.

Inside, Anabelle spun. A dancers turn. The long, blond ponytail swung around the slender neck. Blue eyes widened in the oval face. The pert nose wrinkled; delicate eyebrows drew together, forcing unflattering folds into the high smooth forehead.

When she aged, thats what shed look like, thought the stalker. Shriveled and wrinkled and used up

It was only a matter of years.

Surprise registered on Anabelles face as she stared at the figure beyond the glass. Slight suspicion was evident, but not alarm, and not panic.

Good, thought the stalker. Very good.

It took a week for Anabelle to cross the wood-plank floor. A day for her to click-clock the dead bolt. Finally, the framed beveled glass cracked, and the stalker stiffened, swallowing down the upsurge of bile.

THIS GIRL HAS IT COMING.

SHES BROUGHT IT ON HERSELF.

For days these thoughts had been repeated and repeated on breath after breath, in wave after wave. An unrelenting force, they became the current that carried away any last surge of sentiment, of creeping conscience, of warning whisper that one day there might be regret.