"Sam." She hesitates. "About yesterday. What you said about the pepper spray..."
I wait, not helping her out.
"Are you... have you had security training?"
I set my toolbox down. "Did some personal protection work after the military. Old habits die hard."
It's not a lie. Not exactly.
Her shoulders relax slightly. "That makes sense."
"The pepper spray is good to have," I continue, "but you should keep it somewhere more accessible. Side pocket of your cardigan might work better."
She glances down at the loose gray cardigan she's wearing, then back at me, suspicious again.
"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," I say, keeping my voice even. "Just a professional observation."
"Why would you care about my safety?"
Because it's my mission. Because Reaper ordered it. Because this town needs your testimony.
"Seems like you're nervous about something," I say instead. "And I don't like seeing people scared when there might be something I can do about it."
Her gaze drops to her coffee cup. "I'm not scared," she lies. "Just cautious."
"Cautious is good. Cautious keeps people alive."
Her head snaps up, brown eyes wide. I've said too much.
"In dangerous jobs," I add quickly. "Construction can be hazardous."
She nods slowly, but I can tell she's filing this conversation away, analyzing it from all angles.
"I should get to work," I say, picking up my toolbox again. "Let me know if I'm making too much noise."
As I climb the stairs to her apartment, I mentally kick myself. Too personal. Too direct. This woman is already on high alert, and I've just given her more reason to be suspicious of me.
I unlock the apartment door and step inside. It's small but neat. Functional kitchen, living area with a couch and a coffee table stacked with books. Bathroom off to one side, bedroom through another door. Minimal decoration. Nothing personal on display. A temporary space for a woman in hiding.
I set down my toolbox and get to work removing the kitchen cabinet doors. No renovation needed, but I have to make it look good. I'll sand them down, repaint, reinstall. Make noise. Create a believable cover.
While I work, I place small surveillance devices. One in the living room, one covering the front door. Reaper provided them last night after I returned to the clubhouse. State-of-the-art, virtually undetectable.
"Only monitor when she's not there," he'd instructed. "We need to know if anyone breaks in, not violate her privacy."
I agreed. Some lines you don't cross.
By mid-morning, I've removed all the cabinet doors and hardware. Sweat beads on my forehead as I sand the first door. The apartment is warm, and I've taken off my outer shirt, working in my t-shirt.
There's a soft knock at the door.
"Come in," I call out.
Beth peeks in, her eyes immediately going to the disassembled kitchen. "Oh. You really are renovating."
Did she think it was all a ruse? Smart woman.
"That's what they're paying me for," I answer, setting down the sandpaper. "Everything okay downstairs?"
