She considered it, like the question required real thought. Then nodded. "Yeah. Both."
"I'll go see what Maude's got going."
"Okay." Her eyes drifted closed again, exhaustion still pulling at her despite the hours she'd spent trying to sleep. "I'll be here."
I slid out of bed carefully, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and headed downstairs.
My body felt wrong—wired and heavy at the same time, that particular exhaustion that comes from staying vigilant all night. But my mind was sharp, running through scenarios and contingencies, cataloging every inch around the Inn.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe, or brown sugar. Maude stood at the stove,hair pinned neat as always, apron tied with the kind of bow that said she'd been doing this since before I was born.
"Morning," she said without turning around. "How is she?"
"Better. Color's back. She wants coffee and food."
"Good." Maude nodded, satisfied. "Eating's important. Keeps the body from giving up on the mind."
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her work. "Maude, I need to talk to you about something."
She glanced over her shoulder, reading my tone. "All right."
"I'm worried about your safety. And Hazel's. I think—" I paused, choosing words carefully. "I think it might be better if you went somewhere else for a little while. Just until we sort this out. I'll pay for wherever you want to go. Hotel, friend's house, whatever."
Her hands stilled on the spatula. Then she set it down, wiped her fingers on her apron, and crossed to a drawer by the refrigerator. She opened it, lifted a folded dish towel, and revealed what was underneath.
A revolver. Old but well-maintained, the kind of gun that had seen decades of use and still worked perfectly.
"My daddy taught me to shoot when I turned ten," she said matter-of-factly. "Bottles on fence posts, then clay pigeons, then targets at the range in town. I'm not what you'd call a sharpshooter, but I can hit what I'm aiming at, if it's close enough." She looked at me, eyes steady and clear. "And I'm not one for running, Gideon. This is my home. Has been for thirty years. Some murdering piece of trash isn't going to chase me out of it."
I stared at her for a long moment, then felt a smile pull at my mouth despite everything. "Yes, ma'am."
"Besides," she added, closing the drawer with a decisive click, "that girl needs me. And I suspect you do, too."
"We do," I admitted.
She nodded once, the matter settled, then turned back to the stove. "Now—coffee and food?"
"Could you handle that?" I asked. "I need to make a call."
"Of course." She was already pulling out eggs and butter. "I'll make her a proper breakfast. Nothing light about it. Girl needs her strength." She glanced back at me. "Do you want anything?"
My stomach answered before I could, a low growl that made Maude laugh.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said. "A man like you needs a real breakfast. Give me a few minutes and it'll be ready."
"Thank you."
"Go on, then. Make your call. I've got this handled."
I nodded and stepped out onto the back porch, phone already in my hand. The morning air was cool and damp, the marsh waking up around me with bird calls and insect hum. I pulled up Elias's number and hit dial.
He answered on the second ring. "Gideon."
"Tell me you've got something," I said.
A pause. Then: "I don't."
The frustration in his voice made me go still. I hadn’t known him long, but was certain Elias didn't get frustrated. Elias got results.
