Star Killer
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Chapter 2:- One
Another dreary day.
Lauren Roberts sighed as she stared out the bookstore window at the pouring rain. She could hardly believe it was really July -- it was supposed to be the time for sunshine, short skirts, and strappy sandals, and instead it was day after day of raincoats and cardigans, long pants and ugly shoes. And if that wasn't bad enough, it almost seemed like she was the only person who had to go out in the rain. Certainly their customers weren't leaving their houses these days.
"Hey Lauren," her boss called from the back of the store. "Why don't you take a long lunch?" He must have heard her sighing.
Pete was a nice guy, the nicest she'd ever worked for. He treated his employees like favourite nieces and nephews, and was rewarded with a loyalty all out of proportion to their low-paying, generally part-time jobs.
"Sure thing, Pete," she called back, grabbing her purse and umbrella from under the counter. "Will you watch the front while I'm gone?"
"If anybody actually comes in," he answered, laughing and shaking his head. "I'll probably still be right here when you get back."
It was just two quick blocks from the bookstore to Le Moulin de Michel, the café where Lauren always ate her lunch, but she was thoroughly drenched by the time she made it through the restaurant's clear glass doors. Michel himself, an older man of West African extraction, was behind the counter, and greeted his regular with a broad smile.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" he said. "What would you like today?"
She eyed the array of fresh sandwiches, pastries, and salads . "They all look so good," she said. "What do you suggest?"
"For you, mademoiselle, I suggest the pesto chicken sandwich. Made fresh for you today!"
"Sounds delicious."
She paid for her meal and settled into a table in the corner of the café to read her book. She was two pages into it when she realized a man was standing by her table.
"Can I help you?" she asked, marking her place and putting the paperback down.
"Are you Lauren Roberts?" he asked. He spoke with a strong accent that she couldn't quite place, but his features suggested he was from somewhere in South America.
"Yes?" she asked. Her throat tightened, and she knew what he was going to say before he even said it.
"I have a message for you," he said. "From your brother."
Another dreary day.
Lauren Roberts sighed as she stared out the bookstore window at the pouring rain. She could hardly believe it was really July -- it was supposed to be the time for sunshine, short skirts, and strappy sandals, and instead it was day after day of raincoats and cardigans, long pants and ugly shoes. And if that wasn't bad enough, it almost seemed like she was the only person who had to go out in the rain. Certainly their customers weren't leaving their houses these days.
"Hey Lauren," her boss called from the back of the store. "Why don't you take a long lunch?" He must have heard her sighing.
Pete was a nice guy, the nicest she'd ever worked for. He treated his employees like favourite nieces and nephews, and was rewarded with a loyalty all out of proportion to their low-paying, generally part-time jobs.
"Sure thing, Pete," she called back, grabbing her purse and umbrella from under the counter. "Will you watch the front while I'm gone?"
"If anybody actually comes in," he answered, laughing and shaking his head. "I'll probably still be right here when you get back."
It was just two quick blocks from the bookstore to Le Moulin de Michel, the café where Lauren always ate her lunch, but she was thoroughly drenched by the time she made it through the restaurant's clear glass doors. Michel himself, an older man of West African extraction, was behind the counter, and greeted his regular with a broad smile.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" he said. "What would you like today?"
She eyed the array of fresh sandwiches, pastries, and salads . "They all look so good," she said. "What do you suggest?"
"For you, mademoiselle, I suggest the pesto chicken sandwich. Made fresh for you today!"
"Sounds delicious."
She paid for her meal and settled into a table in the corner of the café to read her book. She was two pages into it when she realized a man was standing by her table.
"Can I help you?" she asked, marking her place and putting the paperback down.
"Are you Lauren Roberts?" he asked. He spoke with a strong accent that she couldn't quite place, but his features suggested he was from somewhere in South America.
"Yes?" she asked. Her throat tightened, and she knew what he was going to say before he even said it.
"I have a message for you," he said. "From your brother."
