"I'll be with you in just a moment," I tell her with a forced smile, then turn back to the agents. "I'm with a customer right now."
"Of course," Richards says. "We just wanted to introduce ourselves. We'll be back tomorrow at noon."
They leave as abruptly as they arrived, the bell jingling behind them.
"Everything alright, dear?" the cookbook lady asks.
"Fine," I lie, my hands trembling slightly as I help her find what she's looking for.
After she leaves, I lock the front door and flip the sign to closed, though it's thirty minutes before my normal closing time. I need to think.
New agents. No warning. No explanation that makes sense.
Something is very wrong.
I hurry upstairs to the apartment, where the sound of sanding has resumed. Sam looks up as I burst in, immediately setting down his tools.
"Beth? What's wrong?"
"Two men just came into the store," I say, my voice shaking. "They said they're my new protection detail. That the others have been transferred."
Sam frowns. "Protection detail?"
I freeze, realizing my mistake. He doesn't know who I am. What I am.
"I... I'm not supposed to talk about it," I stammer.
He approaches slowly, hands visible at his sides like he's trying not to spook a frightened animal. "Beth, are you in some kind of trouble?"
The concern in his voice sounds genuine. And I'm so tired of carrying this alone.
"Yes," I whisper. "But I can't tell you what kind. I'm not allowed."
Sam is quiet for a moment, considering. "These men who came to see you. Did they identify themselves?"
"They said they were U.S. Marshals. Showed badges."
"Did you recognize them from before?"
I shake my head.
"And they replaced people you did know, with no warning?"
"Yes."
Sam's expression darkens. "Do you have someone you can call to verify this change? Someone higher up?"
"An emergency number," I admit. "But I'm only supposed to use it if—"
"If you're in immediate danger," he finishes. His eyes meet mine. "Are you?"
"I don't know," I whisper.
He considers this, then makes a decision. "Use my phone," he says, pulling an old flip phone from his pocket. "It's a burner. Untraceable."
I stare at the offered phone. "Why do you have a burner phone?"
"Because sometimes I don't want to be tracked," he answers simply. "Do you want to make the call or not?"
