Glass Houses Read Free Page B

out of the question. But her rapidly withering hopes for adventure made her want to do it anyway. One of her occasional silly tendencies to be superstitious caused her to fear this could be her last chance at something even remotely daring, and she didn’t want to miss it.
    She had to miss it.
    The man chewed with his mouth open. Olivia couldn't stop herself from glancing at him once more— and finding him staring at her yet again. He made no attempt to smile. His black trilby was pulled well down over his eyes, throwing the top half of his thin face into shadow except for the glint of shoplights on his opaque lenses. A wobbly bag of empty skin stretched from beneath his chin to be gathered in by a starched white shirt collar. His precisely knotted tie was green with some sort of subdued, repeated pattern, and he wore the type of suit favored by most men who worked in the City: black with vertical white stripes. Streaky-bacon suits, some called them.
    He kept on staring, and she wasn’t about to be the first to drop her gaze. Ridiculous fellow. Old enough to be her father but staring at her in the most inappropriate manner. Threatening in a way.
    A squeak distracted her, but she couldn’t tell where it came from.
    Embarrassment had made her put off letting Sam know she’d come to her senses. She should already have posted to say she wouldn’t be going to New York, but he’d think her such an appalling ninny. Thus the jelly rolls. A couple of plump Chelsea buns filled with succulent raisins, currants and sultanas, wound together with cinnamon sauce and topped with sweet white frosting that dripped down the sides would be good with her morning tea, and they’d keep her mind off what she really wanted to do—but really mustn’t.
    Another squeak.
    An assistant returned to the shop with cream-filled meringue pillows. “Won’t be long with the jelly rollies, luv,” he said to Olivia. Of the other customer, he asked, “Ready, are you, guv?”
    The man shook his head but didn’t answer. The boy behind the counter shrugged and returned to the kitchens.
    Olivia grew increasingly uncomfortable. Her stomach ached vaguely and jumped unpleasantly. Several more squeaks raised her suspicion that she was hearing some sort of rodent, or rodents. The sight of the man dropping crumbs into his coat pockets, then patting them as something moved inside, convinced and sickened her.
    When she tore her attention from the squirming pockets she was confronted with the chilling vision of the stranger smiling at her, showing crowded, yellowing teeth while he chewed on. What was left of the loaf he held in both hands and squeezed as if he were strangling a very tiny neck.
    “Jelly rollies,” the returning assistant sang out. “ ’Arf a dozen luverly hot, sticky raspberry rollies with extra coconut and sugar just for you, luv.” He put the cakes into a crackly white bag, handed it to Olivia, took her money and made change.
    She thanked him and went toward the door.
    “And you, guv? Ready now, are you?”
    That earned him another silent shake of the head before the man waited for Olivia to pass and turned to observe her when she stepped outside. She went to the curb and waited for a milk dray to pass before crossing the street. In a window ahead she soon saw the rodent fancier take up positi on on the curb she’d just left.
    He was going to follow her.
    Fighting against a painful pulsing in her throat, Olivia looked around. No police were in sight, not that she could rush up to an officer and accuse someone of … of what? He’d h ave to do something—like attack her—before she could ask for help.
    It was early enough for the night chill to linger. The skin on her face felt tight and icy. The sweat on her back felt icy, too, and she breathed with only the tops of her lungs.
    Oh, she was overreacting because of the break-in. She started walking toward home.
    He followed. Others passed, but she could isolate the sound of his small,