form lacked substance.
Gazing into his face was like gazing through a crystal globe, the images behind him visible through his skin and only slightly distorted by being seen in such a manner.
Like the woman, he was a ghost.
“What’s wrong with those people?” Hawkins said.
Chapter Eleven
Kristin squeezed Hawkins’ arm tightly. “You see it, too?”
“Of course, I do.” He reached for her fingers, softening the grip on his arm. “That’s not right. Old man Piotrowski, working in this heat? He’ll have a stroke.”
Hearing Hawkins’ words, the woman turned from Martin Piotrowski and looked directly at them. She narrowed her eyes and, for a moment, it seemed to Kristin as if she was surprised.
Surprised and frightened.
Martin carried his box into the restaurant. The tall man followed after him but was stopped at the doorway by the woman in the gold leaf dress.
“Mr. Locke,” she said, the words floating to Kristin as if carried on a current of air. The woman dropped her voice.
Mr. Locke nodded. Lowering his container to the ground, crystal muscles bunching under the thin fabric of the blue shirt, he slapped his hands together, as if to brush the dirt from them.
He gazed across the black asphalt, the irises of his eyes hanging like dark half-marbles in the empty sphere of his face. It was beyond creepy. Although it was hard for Kristin to see the finer details in his expression, she could have sworn he was smirking.
Not bothering to check for traffic, he lurched toward them, his stride smoothing as he crossed the street. “Hey! What do you think you’re looking at?”
“Oh, boy,” Hawkins said softly.
A slender man with delicate features, Mr. Locke’s arms were lean but muscular and his shoulders were wide. Still appearing as if he’d been carved from glass, he didn’t seem nearly so ephemeral when he was standing in front of them.
He said, “Alice Poe doesn’t like how you’re staring at us.”
The thin woman, Alice Poe, remained at the side of the moving van. Glowering, Hawkins opened his mouth to speak. Kristin put a warning finger against his lips and the motion surprised him. His mouth snapped shut.
“The two of you seem a little slow so maybe you didn’t understand me the first time,” the glass man said, a threat rumbling beneath his words. “I’ll ask one more time. What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” Kristin said honestly.
The answer amused him. “I could say the same, young meat.” He tipped his head toward Hawkins. “What’s this? Bring me a present?”
Crossing his arms, Hawkins stepped in front of her.
Protecting me, Kristin thought. But from what?
“The boy doesn’t know, does he?” the glass man said. “You didn’t tell him. I’ll bet you wouldn’t even know what to tell him.”
Hawkins turned toward her. When he did, Mr. Locke frowned. Pinching the younger man’s chin between his fingers and a thumb, he forced him to face forward.
An expression of pain and fear filled Hawkins’ eyes. As empty as he appeared, Mr. Locke was apparently quite powerful. A pleased smile lifted his lips as he scanned up and down the younger man’s body. “Nice.”
Hawkins shrank back. Snorting derisively, the glass man returned to the middle of the street. He stopped, holding an empty hand out to an approaching car.
“Glad you know to keep your secrets, little girl,” he called to Kristin. “Now go bother someone else. I have work to do.”
“What if I don’t?” Kristin called after him. Striding toward the moving van, he didn’t answer.
“What was that about?” Hawkins asked her. “What secrets?”
She didn’t know what to say.
“What’s going on?”
“Piotrowski’s Café is in business again,” she said. It offered enough truth to let her keep her mouth. “Martin leased out the place. New management. New employees.”
“You’re not thinking of applying for a job, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that guy creeps
Gazing into his face was like gazing through a crystal globe, the images behind him visible through his skin and only slightly distorted by being seen in such a manner.
Like the woman, he was a ghost.
“What’s wrong with those people?” Hawkins said.
Chapter Eleven
Kristin squeezed Hawkins’ arm tightly. “You see it, too?”
“Of course, I do.” He reached for her fingers, softening the grip on his arm. “That’s not right. Old man Piotrowski, working in this heat? He’ll have a stroke.”
Hearing Hawkins’ words, the woman turned from Martin Piotrowski and looked directly at them. She narrowed her eyes and, for a moment, it seemed to Kristin as if she was surprised.
Surprised and frightened.
Martin carried his box into the restaurant. The tall man followed after him but was stopped at the doorway by the woman in the gold leaf dress.
“Mr. Locke,” she said, the words floating to Kristin as if carried on a current of air. The woman dropped her voice.
Mr. Locke nodded. Lowering his container to the ground, crystal muscles bunching under the thin fabric of the blue shirt, he slapped his hands together, as if to brush the dirt from them.
He gazed across the black asphalt, the irises of his eyes hanging like dark half-marbles in the empty sphere of his face. It was beyond creepy. Although it was hard for Kristin to see the finer details in his expression, she could have sworn he was smirking.
Not bothering to check for traffic, he lurched toward them, his stride smoothing as he crossed the street. “Hey! What do you think you’re looking at?”
“Oh, boy,” Hawkins said softly.
A slender man with delicate features, Mr. Locke’s arms were lean but muscular and his shoulders were wide. Still appearing as if he’d been carved from glass, he didn’t seem nearly so ephemeral when he was standing in front of them.
He said, “Alice Poe doesn’t like how you’re staring at us.”
The thin woman, Alice Poe, remained at the side of the moving van. Glowering, Hawkins opened his mouth to speak. Kristin put a warning finger against his lips and the motion surprised him. His mouth snapped shut.
“The two of you seem a little slow so maybe you didn’t understand me the first time,” the glass man said, a threat rumbling beneath his words. “I’ll ask one more time. What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” Kristin said honestly.
The answer amused him. “I could say the same, young meat.” He tipped his head toward Hawkins. “What’s this? Bring me a present?”
Crossing his arms, Hawkins stepped in front of her.
Protecting me, Kristin thought. But from what?
“The boy doesn’t know, does he?” the glass man said. “You didn’t tell him. I’ll bet you wouldn’t even know what to tell him.”
Hawkins turned toward her. When he did, Mr. Locke frowned. Pinching the younger man’s chin between his fingers and a thumb, he forced him to face forward.
An expression of pain and fear filled Hawkins’ eyes. As empty as he appeared, Mr. Locke was apparently quite powerful. A pleased smile lifted his lips as he scanned up and down the younger man’s body. “Nice.”
Hawkins shrank back. Snorting derisively, the glass man returned to the middle of the street. He stopped, holding an empty hand out to an approaching car.
“Glad you know to keep your secrets, little girl,” he called to Kristin. “Now go bother someone else. I have work to do.”
“What if I don’t?” Kristin called after him. Striding toward the moving van, he didn’t answer.
“What was that about?” Hawkins asked her. “What secrets?”
She didn’t know what to say.
“What’s going on?”
“Piotrowski’s Café is in business again,” she said. It offered enough truth to let her keep her mouth. “Martin leased out the place. New management. New employees.”
“You’re not thinking of applying for a job, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that guy creeps
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