Howling In The Darkness. B.J. Daniels

She wondered what he wanted with her mystery date. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good, she’d bet on that.

      “Hi!” she said, catching up with Tommy in front of Bait & Tackle, the local bait shop.

      The boy flinched as if she’d hit him. He glanced around nervously, looking guilty as hell. “Hi.” He seemed to wait expectantly for her to tell him what she wanted. She’d forgotten what fifteen was like. Just as she’d forgotten seventeen, it seemed.

      “I noticed you going past and I haven’t seen you for a while,” she said.

      He nodded, still waiting.

      “I saw that man stop you,” she said, turning to look back down the street. The man in the army jacket was gone. “What did he ask you?”

      Tommy seemed relieved, as if she’d asked him something he didn’t mind answering. “He said he was with the FBI and that he was looking for a man and had I seen him.”

      A different story. “Had you seen him?” she asked.

      Tommy shook his head.

      She realized Tommy was again waiting patiently to see what she wanted with him. “You know I have a job opening at my office for the summer, and I thought—”

      “I have a job,” Tommy interrupted.

      “Oh, shoot, I thought you’d be great at it,” she said, hoping he didn’t ask what job as she glanced back down the street. She noticed Alyssa Castor, the daughter of the owner of Madam Fleury’s—Yvette Castor. Alyssa appeared to be window-shopping—and tailing Tommy.

      Kat saw the girl’s expression as she stole a look at Tommy. Kat recognized the look: idol worship. It appeared Alyssa had a major crush and, as always seemed to be the case, he didn’t even know she was alive—let alone following him.

      “So where are you working?” Kat asked conversationally, watching a few tourists mingle past.

      “I’m just running errands for a few guys,” Tommy said, sounding both defensive and evasive, two sure giveaways, if there were any.

      “Em’s looking for a job.” She hoped. “Errands, huh? Here, along Waterfront?”

      He squirmed a little. “Just for Ernie here at Bait & Tackle and Brody at the Wharf Rat and some other guys.”

      She nodded, trying to imagine what errands someone like Brody at the Wharf Rat—a bar—would have for a fifteen-year-old boy. Alyssa had stopped a door behind them pretending to admire a huge gargoyle in one of the witch-shop windows. “Maybe you could run errands for me, too.”

      He shrugged. “I’m pretty busy already, you know.”

      She didn’t know, but she planned to find out. “So what type of errands could I maybe get you to do for me? If you had time? Get me lunch? Or take packages to the post office? What do you do for the other guys?”

      Before Tommy could answer, loud angry voices erupted from the bar in question. An instant later, a man came flying out of the bar’s front door as if thrown. He stumbled and fell to the bricks, followed quickly by another.

      “Take it outside,” a third man called after them, flinging the cap of one of the men to the ground. The first man stumbled to his feet and dived at the second man still on the bricks. The two began wrestling awkwardly, obviously having had way too much to drink.

      What caught and held her attention weren’t the quarreling drunks, but the man who’d just thrown the pair out of the bar. She stared at her mystery date from the night before, wondering why she was so shocked to see that he worked at the Wharf Rat. No wonder she’d been attracted to him! The man was an obvious loser—which unfortunately was her type of late. Maybe someone from the FBI really was looking for him.

      He looked up, meeting her gaze, and she quickly swung back around to Tommy, disgusted with herself for being attracted to the wrong type, but also feeling relieved he wasn’t some psychopath just passing through town whom she’d not only had dinner with but had almost kissed.

      When she turned, however, Tommy was gone. So was Alyssa. Angry that she’d let Tommy get away so easily, she crossed the street and started toward her office—and tripped over nothing, pitching headlong toward the brick pavement.