Don't Kill For Me

Don't Kill For MeA Death and Donuts ThrillerMartha HenleyPace Bend Press Copyright © 2018 by Martha Henley All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [email protected] story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.Second edition 2023 Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Chapter Twenty-four Chapter Twenty-five Chapter Twenty-six Chapter Twenty-seven Chapter Twenty-eight Chapter Twenty-nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-one Chapter Thirty-two Chapter Thirty-three Chapter Thirty-four Chapter Thirty-five Chapter Thirty-six Chapter Thirty-seven Chapter Thirty-eight Chapter Thirty-nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-one Chapter Forty-two Chapter Forty-three Chapter Forty-four Chapter Forty-five Chapter Forty-six Chapter Forty-seven Chapter Forty-eight Chapter Forty-nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-one Chapter Fifty-two Chapter Fifty-three Chapter Fifty-four Chapter Fifty-five Chapter Fifty-six Chapter Fifty-seven Chapter Fifty-eight Chapter Fifty-nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-one Chapter Sixty-two Chapter Sixty-three Chapter Sixty-four Chapter Sixty-five Chapter Sixty-six Chapter Sixty-seven Chapter Sixty-eight Chapter Sixty-nine Chapter Seventy More By Martha Henley Reunion Pact Series About Martha Henley Chapter OneDeath never bothered me growing up. I’d lived in the first house on a street where the corner business was a funeral home. From my bedroom window, I spied over the falling down fence to watch the caretakers load caskets into their hearses. All the bodies that went in and never came out of the black cavernous vehicles, sparked my imagination. I’d wonder who the people had been before they died. Storytelling my own versions of strangers’ lives stuck with me well into adulthood. “For the Hour Floral, how can I help you?” I answered the incoming call on the landline in my floral shop. “Yes, we do casket sprays. We can customize them to your budget. Let me tell you what flowers are in season, so I can give you an accurate quote.” As I explained our services, I acknowledged a customer entering the shop by waving him in. “Thank you. Hope to hear from you soon.”“They’re not calling back,” I said out loud to myself. I knew the prices at my shop were slightly higher than competitors’. The difference was mostly because I was locally owned and not a part of a huge chain operation. The second reason had to do with my location. When I set out less than a year ago to follow my dream and own my own business, I hadn’t realized the traffic in the dying shopping mall was extremely low.The bulk of the business came from word of mouth and online orders. I specialized in event arrangements. Weddings, retirement parties, holiday centerpieces, and my favorite, funeral sprays.Off the phone, I turned my attention to the customer who’d entered. Women who shopped for flowers were on a mission. They were in the mood to buy or were excited about an event. They were brides getting married or young ladies going to their high school prom. They knew exactly what they wanted when they walked in the door.There were two kinds of men who shopped for flowers. The first were those who wandered in, passing time. The second were looking for Trina, my provocatively dressed, overly flirtatious twenty year old part timer. What she lacked in retail skills, she gave back in marketing. She told everyone where she worked. The men followed and bought flowers to get her phone number.“Shopping for a happy occasion?” I asked the man standing with his back to me, staring at an arrangement of lilies. “Or a sad one?”“Could I ask you a question?” The man turned, holding out the vase of lilies. “Do these say will you go to dinner with me?” He raised his eyes to meet mine. They were sort of pathetic, staring back at me from behind his rectangular black rimmed glasses. He was in desperate need of a makeover. Especially if his goal was to ask a woman out on a dinner date.“Not really.” I placed the arrangement back on the shelf and pointed him in the direction of the long stemmed roses. “Traditionally red ones are for the one you love. Yellows are for friends, pink means I’m thinking of you. I’d go with a single long stemmed pink rose. Should I wrap one up for you?”Trina stepped out of the cold flower room, dancing to a tune playing through earbuds plugged into her phone.“No, I’ve changed my mind.” The man panicked and took a step toward the door.It’d been a slow day, so I shouted out to him quickly. “I can give you baby’s breath and nice ribbon. On the house. It’ll really impress her.”“I don’t think it will.” He stopped in place, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath. “It was you I wanted to ask out. Will you go to dinner with me, Eileen?”“Do I know you?” I studied his face; it seemed familiar. Maybe he worked in the mall. I felt guilty that I didn’t fully recognize him.To be honest, I didn’t pay that much attention to the goings on of the people that walked by the shop on a day to day basis. The man standing in front of me with his pouting lips and graying hair, could be anyone. But he was someone who knew my name. “You have an advantage, Mister . . .”“We haven’t officially met. Do you know the indoor inflatable park at the other end of the mall?” He sped up the hurry in his words as he spoke. “It’s mine. I own it. We’re both in the hospitality business. When mothers need