Chapter 2 - Beth
I arrange the classics section for the third time today, moving Jane Austen next to the Brontë sisters, then separating them again. My hands won't stop shaking. They never really do anymore.
Pine Haven Books should feel like my sanctuary. Books have always been my escape, my comfort, my friends when real ones were scarce. But even surrounded by thousands of stories, I can't lose myself in any of them. Not when my own story might be coming to an abrupt end.
The bell above the door jingles, and I nearly drop the copy of "Pride and Prejudice" I'm holding. My heart pounds against my ribs until I see it's just Mrs. Fletcher, the elderly woman who's visited every day since I opened last week.
"Good morning, Beth dear," she says, her voice warm and comforting. "Any new mysteries come in?"
I force a smile, trying to steady my breathing. "Not since yesterday, Mrs. Fletcher, but I'm expecting a shipment tomorrow."
"Well, I'll just browse then. Don't mind me."
She wanders toward the mystery section, and I return to straightening books that don't need straightening. The clock on the wall reads 11:37. Twenty-three minutes until they come. The daily check-in. The reminder that I'm living on borrowed time.
Agent Wilson and Agent Cruz. One tall and stern, the other shorter with cold eyes that never quite look directly at me. They ask the same questions every day. Has anyone suspicious come in? Have you received any unusual phone calls? Do you feel safe?
I always lie and say yes to the last one.
I don't feel safe. I haven't felt safe since the day I heard Judge Harmon speaking with Police Commissioner Reynolds and Mayor Blackwell about the "Pine Haven Acquisition." About buying off officials and threatening others. About making examples of people who wouldn't sell their land.
I was just doing my job, recording court proceedings like I'd done for three years. I wasn't supposed to be there early. Wasn't supposed to hear them speaking so candidly while they thought the courtroom was empty. Wasn't supposed to keep recording.
But I did. And now I'm here, hiding in a small town under a name that isn't mine, waiting to testify about things that could get me killed.
The back door rattles, and I freeze. It's the entrance to the stairwell leading to my apartment upstairs. No one uses that door. No one has keys except me and the U.S. Marshals.
Mrs. Fletcher looks up from her book. "Everything alright, dear? You've gone white as a sheet."
"Fine," I manage to squeak out. "Just remembered something I forgot to do."
I move toward the back of the store, heart hammering so loudly I'm sure anyone within ten feet could hear it. The door rattles again, followed by the distinctive sound of a key turning in the lock.
They're not due for another twenty minutes. They always come at noon. Always together. Never through the back.
I reach under the counter, fingers wrapping around the small canister of pepper spray Agent Wilson gave me. Fat lot of good it would do against a professional killer, but it's all I have.
The door swings open, and a man steps through. Tall and solid, filling the doorframe with broad shoulders. He's dressed in jeansand a gray t-shirt, work boots on his feet and a tool belt slung low on his hips. Dark hair cut short, military-short. And eyes, green eyes that scan the room with efficiency before landing on me.
Not the Marshals. Not someone I recognize. My finger hovers over the pepper spray nozzle.
"Ms. Carter?" His voice is deep but gentle, like he's trying not to startle a frightened animal. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I am.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out embarrassingly thin and shaky. "How did you get a key?"
He holds up his hands, showing me they're empty. "Sam Davis. Your landlord hired me to renovate the apartment upstairs. Said to let you know I'd be coming and going for the next few weeks."
My landlord. A man I've never met who communicates only through emails. Another layer of my witness protection arrangement.
"I—I wasn't told about any renovations," I stammer, not releasing my grip on the pepper spray.
"Just got the call this morning," he says, reaching slowly into his back pocket and pulling out a folded paper. "Here's the work order if you want to see it."
He extends it toward me, but doesn't come closer, keeping a respectful distance. I hesitate, then step forward to take it.
The paper looks official enough, with a letterhead from Pine Haven Properties and a list of renovations—kitchen cabinets, bathroom remodel, new flooring. All things that don't actually need fixing in my perfectly functional apartment.
"I live up there," I say, my voice stronger now that the initial shock is fading. "These renovations will disturb my living situation."
