Silas's Shadow

The salty air, usually a balm to August’s soul, felt thick with an unspoken tension. It clung to the brightly colored umbrellas of the boardwalk, to the peeling paint of the concession stands, and most insistently, to the shadows that seemed to lengthen around Silas Croft’s Souvenir Shack. He was a fixture, as much a part of the boardwalk landscape as the screech of gulls or the distant rumble of the Ferris wheel. But lately, his genial smile felt more like a mask, his booming laughter a little too forced.

"He's been lurking around more than usual," Bree whispered, her voice barely audible over the whir of the milkshake machine. She was meticulously arranging a display of novelty sunglasses, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Every time I turn around, he's there, asking about business, how many scoops we're moving."

August nodded, her gaze drifting towards Croft’s shop, a gaudy explosion of neon and trinkets just a few stalls down. He’d popped in earlier, ostensibly to offer his “condolences” about Mrs. Gable’s unfortunate bout of food poisoning. His concern had been so effusive, so over-the-top, that it had set August’s teeth on edge. He’d even offered to “help out” by selling some of their more popular ice cream flavors in his shop, a suggestion she’d politely but firmly declined.