"Busy morning?" he asks eventually.
"Busier than usual. Lots of curious locals." I take a sip of the soda he brought. "How's the renovation coming along?"
He glances at the dismantled cabinets. "On schedule. Though I dropped a sanding block earlier. Sorry about the noise."
"It's fine. Just startled me."
He nods, watching me with those observant green eyes. "You seem anxious today. More than yesterday."
I stiffen. "I'm fine."
"Sure," he says easily, not pushing. "We all have off days."
The way he says it—casual, non-judgmental—makes me want to tell him the truth. To unburden myself to someone, anyone, after months of carrying this fear alone.
"I'm waiting for someone who hasn't shown up," I admit, surprising myself. "They're usually very punctual."
"Ah." Sam crumples his burger wrapper. "Friend? Boyfriend?"
"Business associates," I say. "They come by every day around noon."
"Maybe they got caught up in something."
"Maybe." But my instincts are screaming that something is wrong. "They're not the type to change routines."
Sam considers this. "Could you call them?"
"I..." I hesitate. I do have the emergency number, but I'm only supposed to use it if I'm in immediate danger. "I don't think so. Not yet."
He doesn't press further, just nods as if my non-answer makes perfect sense. "Well, if you're worried, I'll be around all day. Just in case you need anything."
The offer is casual, but I hear something underneath it: a steadiness, a reliability that's been absent from my life for too long.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it.
"No problem." He stands, gathering our trash. "Better get back to work. Those cabinets won't sand themselves."
I return to the store, feeling slightly better after our impromptu lunch. The afternoon passes slowly, with a few customers but no sign of Wilson and Cruz. By four o'clock, I've given up expecting them.
I'm helping an older woman find a cookbook when the bell jingles. I look up, breath catching when I see two men in suits enter. But they're not Wilson and Cruz. These men are younger, with the same alert posture but different faces.
"Ms. Carter?" the taller one says, approaching the counter while his partner remains by the door.
"Yes?" I manage, my heart racing.
"I'm Agent Richards, this is Agent Thompson. We're with the U.S. Marshals Service." He flashes a badge that I glance at too quickly to verify. "There's been a reassignment in your case. We'll be handling your protection detail moving forward."
My stomach drops. "What happened to Agents Wilson and Cruz?"
"Transferred to another assignment," Richards says smoothly. "Nothing to worry about. Just administrative changes."
But something feels wrong. Wilson and Cruz wouldn't leave without telling me. They weren't friendly, but they were thorough. Professional.
"I wasn't notified of any changes," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Last-minute decision," Thompson speaks up from the door. "We'll be conducting daily check-ins just as before."
The cookbook lady is giving us curious looks, clearly sensing the tension.
