Member-only story
The Girl in the Bookstore
Time works in mysterious ways.
I missed my train, and I had an hour to kill before the next one appeared out of the ether to spirit me away back home. It was a lazy Tuesday evening right after rush hour, so I ducked into the terminal’s small bookstore to browse while debating whether I should take the escalator to scout out a Starbucks for a coffee. I passed by a small rack of magazines before glancing down at the table of new hardcovers. I picked up one of the tomes out of curiosity and nearly winced when I saw the thirty dollar price sticker on the back of the dust jacket.
“That’s one of her best,” a voice said, and I glanced beside me to see a young brunette-haired woman staring back.
I lifted the book to show off the illustrated cover of a woman in a red dress walking down a lonely street and into the night. “Oh, yeah?”
The woman’s lips turned up with clear mirth. “Yes. Melinda Mallory is a great mystery writer.”
Never heard of her, I thought to say — but I didn’t want to sound like an asshole. Instead, I set the book back down and murmured, “I’ll have to see if the library has it,” even though I hadn’t even registered what the title was.
But the woman next to me surprised me by saying, “I know you won’t.”
