Free Love Inspired Suspense April 2015 #2 by Dana Mentink, Tammy Johnson, Michelle Karl

approaching. “Company.” He quickly ejected the tape and returned it to the shelf. They made it through the door just as a man appeared around the corner.
    The whip-thin manager in a rumpled white shirt and tie jerked in alarm. “What are you doing back here?”
    Mick propelled Keeley around him out the door. “Wrong turn.”
    Stephano appeared, weight shifting from foot to foot. “I told you, the bathroom’s on that side of the store.” He jerked a thumb, swallowing so hard Mick could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
    The manager frowned and started to speak when a plaintive voice called from the checkout line. “Can someone help me? I need to buy these diapers, and...”
    There was a crash. “Oh, sorry,” the voice called.
    Stephano groaned. “I think her kid just knocked over the soup-can display. Took me an hour to set that thing up.” He turned back to the register, and his supervisor followed.
    Mick puffed out a breath. “Soup-can kid has impeccable timing.”
    â€œSure does. We had just enough time to get a picture. I’m going to press Stephano and see if he can tell me what they talked about.”
    He took her elbow. “I think the next time we show up at the checkout line, we’d better have a bag of flour.”
    * * *
    Biting back impatience, Keeley led the way to the baking aisle and selected the flour. She held two bags of flour and, though she did not ask him to, Mick grabbed the other two.
    â€œThat’s a lot of flour,” he said.
    â€œI bake a lot of bread.” She also grabbed a box of raisins that was marked down. It felt odd to have a man escorting her through the checkout, strangely domestic, as if they were some normal couple out running an errand. No one would suspect the fear that swirled around her and the guilt that enveloped him. Still, it made her feel the tiniest bit better to know that she wasn’t alone, at least momentarily, in this crazy escapade that made her stomach tie itself in knots. Undoubtedly she would be better off without Mick around, but that couldn’t be helped at the moment.
    It’s all for Junie
, she told herself.
You can do anything for Junie
.
    They waited patiently for their turn at the register. The manager flicked them suspicious glances as he restacked the cans of soup.
    â€œYou talked with the snack-cake woman,” Keeley said through a smile. “What did you say?”
    â€œCan’t remember,” Stephano grunted, shoving the bags of flour into paper sacks.
    Mick spoke softly. “If you can’t remember for us, I’m sure you could recall it for the cops. My guess is they already know your name, don’t they, Stephano?”
    â€œOkay, okay,” he whispered. “She was pretty, a little bit flirty so I asked her name.”
    â€œAnd?” Keeley said.
    â€œGinny,” he whispered. “That’s all I know. Then she left and I never saw her again.”
    Ginny. They had a name and a face. It wasn’t enough, not even close, but it was a start, and Keeley felt some small triumph in it.
    As he gathered up the grocery sacks, Mick leaned forward and spoke to Stephano. “Pull up your pants, son, and buy a belt, for crying out loud.”
    Keeley managed to repress a giggle.
    At her house he carried the bags of flour inside and deposited them on the kitchen table. She lugged out her ancient bread machine and set to work mixing flour, yeast, water and salt. The familiar movements soothed her, the soft clicks and whirrs of the blade mixing the ingredients after she plugged it in. It still amazed her that with only a few ingredients and the help of her machine, Keeley Stevens, worst cook in America, could produce a passable loaf of bread.
    Mick watched, thumbs hooked in his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He eyed the corner of the machine, which she had repaired with duct tape after it wobbled its way off the