Sunday. Phone Repair Shop. New York City, New York.
NASAR WIPED THE COUNTERS down despite not having a single customer that morning thus far.
He really should consider closing the store on Sundays. Hardly anyone came in. But then he'd have to find something else to do with his time. Something that wasn't waiting for the stars to align.
He placed both the microfiber rag and bottle of cleaner under the register. As he stood his gaze landed on the snapshot, he'd had copied a dozen or more times. It was the only remaining picture of his family. The rest of their things had gone up in the blaze that took them.
If it weren't for this picture, he wondered if he'd still remember their faces.
He blew out a breath and reached out, rubbing his thumb over his wife's face.
She'd been a gentle, loving woman. He'd never deserved her.
Nasar's cell phone rang.
He glanced at the clock.
It was past time.