So far, Miranda is trying to figure out what happened to Dougie Wilcox. Matt, her boss, has hired a high school boy to work with her and she isn't pleased. Rita, her co-worker, thinks her own husband is cheating on her. With all of this going on, Miranda is starting to show signs of wear.

**********************************

I do my damned best at shaking off the encounter with that crusty old neighbor, Mrs. Fine. She is so abrasive and doesn't seem to care who she offends. The real problem with her is I sometimes see myself acting like her in the distant future. I've been called salty, bitchy, smart-ass and a few other names I'll leave to your imagination. But I never just blurt out things that are none of my business, so maybe there's still a little hope for me.

I hurry to get ready for work and as I'm driving I say on repeat, "I will be nice to the new guy. I will be nice to the new guy." Now, whether or not I actually follow through on this mantra, is anybody's guess.

There is no sign of Matt or his vehicle as I pull into the lot. Thank goodness. I did not say in my morning mantra "I will be nice to Matt."

Rita is ringing up some tourist for their gum and beer when I walk in. I ease around the counter and wait until she finishes the transaction with a "You enjoy your time here and swing on by if you need something else." When she says it, it sounds so genuine and sweet. She has this nice little southern accent and a real sweet smile. And, hell, she probably does mean it. When I say it, only an idiot would buy it.

"Did I miss anything?" I ask, tugging my red vest on.

Rita points to a plastic Big Eagle drink cup filled with pink carnations.

"So, hubby is begging forgiveness?"

Her smile falters a little. "Someone brought those for you, Miranda."

I lift the cup up. No little florist card attached, nothing to identify the giver. "Did they put the flowers in the cup or did you?"

"Oh, Miranda, I had just opened up and this car pulls up. A tiny little old man gets out and walks over to where I'm setting up the oil display. He clears his throat and says, 'Good morning, young lady, is Miss Miranda working today?' So, I told him you worked the afternoon shift. Well, he just looked so sad. He said he had a doctor's appointment this afternoon, but he told me to give you these."

I smile at Rita because I know she's swept up in this whole thing. "Rita, did you happen to get a name?"

Her eyes widen a little. "I, I did, but I can't remember it. Let me think. Stepford? Taylor? Does Stark ring a bell?"

"No. Could it have been Starling?"

She nods excitedly. "He was adorable. Tell me what's going on? Why did he bring you flowers?"

I place the cup back on the counter and shrug. "I pumped his gas for him the other night. He couldn't figure out how to pay with cash."

"That's weird. I thought everyone knew how to pump their own gas."

"Apparently, he doesn't."

She reaches over and rubs my upper arm. "You're a softie. You act all tough, but deep down, total marshmallow."

I cock my eyebrow and head for the cooler. "You ever say that again, and I'll kill you."

**********************************

At exactly four o'clock, my smiling new co-worker walks through the glass doors of The Little Eagle Gas and Go, clad in khakis and a white polo shirt. Under his arm is his trusty basketball.

"Well, Preston, you're right on time. That's good. You, uh, got a game?" I say nodding to the ball.

Preston grins. "You never know when you might need it. It can be something to stave off boredom." He dribbles it through his legs. "It can entertain." He straightens and spins it perfectly on his fingertips. "And, last but certainly not least, it can be used as a weapon."

"A weapon?"

"A well placed ball to the face can definitely leave a mark."

Despite my earlier concerns about being nice to him, I think Preston and I are going to get along. He's quirky, no doubt, but he's happy like a golden retriever and just as cute.

He doesn't want to take a ten minute break, but I make him go sit in the office. "Just watch the monitors or look at your phone."

As I'm bending down to open a new box of bags for behind the counter, Preston comes out. "I just saw something weird on one of the screens," he says.

"What'd you see?" I ask, following him as he heads to the door.

"There was somebody standing there by the dumpster. But no cars are in the parking lot."

Trying not to get caught up in the drama he's creating I shrug it off. "People put stuff in our dumpster all the time."

Preston looks down at me. "He wasn't putting anything in there. He was just standing there. Just watching the store."

I ignore the chill that runs down my spine. "I don't see anybody, do you?"

Preston squints, then shakes his head. "No, but that was pure horror movie vibes."

Shake it off, Miranda. There is no boogeyman. The only boogeyman in your world is in prison.