All The Stars In Heaven by Michele Paige Holmes

shoulder.
    “Not tonight, you don’t. You’re working.”
    “What?” Sarah turned around to face her father, shock and dismay clearly visible on her face. “It’s Thursday. I never work on Thursdays.” The stern look on her father’s face told her it was hopeless to argue. “Is this some kind of punishment because I told you how much I want to quit?”
    “I’m trying to make things easier,” he said, nodding to a bag near the front door. “I thought a different beat and disguise might make working more—bearable.”
    Sarah forced herself to walk to the door and retrieve the bag. Under scrutiny of her father’s gaze, she pulled out a pair of worn, grungy jeans. Her brow wrinkled in confusion while her nose wrinkled in distaste.
    Her father leaned forward in his chair. “Take the rest of it out.”
    She pulled a large black sweatshirt from the bag, followed by a pair of battered sneakers. A puke green knit cap finished the ensemble.
    “Well?” Grant asked.
    “They’re . . . different.” Disgusting.
    “That’s the point. It’s different from anything you’ve ever worn before. There’s also a box of hair dye at the bottom of the bag. I want you to use that too, and put your hair in two braids. It’ll be a better disguise than that rat’s nest of a wig you’ve been wearing.”
    “I’ve never colored my hair before. I thought you said I had to leave it natural.”
    “It’ll be back to natural soon enough—the dye is just temporary. Now hurry. Carl will be here in forty minutes. He’ll drop you off five blocks from your job. You’ll carry a Glock with you—that’s why the sweatshirt is extra large.”
    The knots in her stomach multiplied. He was serious about her carrying a gun.
    “Hurry up. Go.” Grant shooed her down the hall with a wave of his hand.
    Reluctantly Sarah went into the bathroom and shut the door. She sat on the edge of the tub as she read the instructions for the hair dye, wondering if the red would really wash out. She stood up and looked in the mirror, pulled the rubber band free from her ponytail, and shook out her hair. What I really need is a new hairstyle, she thought glumly. But her father always insisted on long and plain. He said anything else might attract unwanted attention.
    Sighing, she donned the disposable gloves, mixed the solution, and squirted the foul-smelling liquid all over her head. When it was rubbed in as much as possible, she picked up the bag of clothes and went to her room. Glancing at her cat clock, she noted how many minutes she had to wait until she could rinse her hair.
    Taking a folder from her backpack, she pulled out the prints Jay had bought and sat on her bed and shuffled through them, remembering each moment at the museum when she’d stood in front of the real paintings. When she came to Mrs. Israel Thorndike, she paused a little longer, remembering how she’d been aware of Jay looking at her instead of the painting. And she’d known, if she had only turned her head, what kind of look she would have caught in his eyes. It baffled her.
    Perhaps the idea of taking her out had started on a bet—or a joke between him and the dancers he knew. But if so, something had changed last Friday. She would bet now that he was serious when he said he wanted to see her again.
    But why?
    She wished she knew, wished there was some way to find out. Because when Jay looked at her, it didn’t creep her out, which was the way she felt around Carl—like prey being tracked by a predator. Being around Jay was nice, comfortable. Not the comfortable she felt around Reverend Daniels and the Ladies’ Aid women who were always so kind to her, but a more interesting kind of comfortable— friendly.
    A wistful smile touched her lips as she placed the prints back in the folder. With some effort, she forced thoughts of Jay and friendship to the far corner of her mind and hurried to get ready.
    Grimacing, she pulled the jeans and sneakers from the bag. No doubt these