Back to Petro. “If the Accord shows, you shadow at half a block. You do not close. Send me sixty-second updates. If you see anything move, you mark the hand. If the sheriff rolls past, you nod and let him go. No stories.”
My palms are damp. I hate that I’m listening and not moving. I head for the kettle and a plate just to have something to carry.
Matteo’s voice stays level behind me. “You check sheds, basements, the old boiler room behind the hall. Nico would not sit in a car. He knows better. You do not open anything alone. I am coming down.”
He hangs there between the door and me, like he could split in two and be useful in both places. He shrugs into a dark field coat, smooth and fast, pats the holster under his arm, then checks the magazine with a quick, practiced click. When he turns, there’s pain around his mouth he won’t name. He hates leaving thishouse. He carries the apology in his eyes. I’m ready to argue, a dozen points crowding my tongue, but his phone buzzes again. Petro. Matteo answers on the first vibration.
“Report.”
Petro’s reply scrapes through the line, “Nothing. Lantern Alley’s clean. The motel wing’s quiet. The loop’s dead. I can’t guard the hall and chase.”
Matteo’s eyes flick to me, then drop to the map. “You return to the hall now. Set control before first light. Listen.” He toggles the speaker volume low so he can mark the hall map.
“I’m listening.”
“Lock the sightlines. Pull the coat racks into a shallow S from the kitchen entrance to the stage so no one can run straight through. Lock the casters on both racks. Leave a two-foot channel down the middle. We will post people three paces off it. Anyone who refuses the turn will be intercepted.”
“Got it.”
“Kill the mood lights. Full overheads over the wings.” He taps the map on a corner. “No shadows behind the nativity flats. I want the whole stage clean. Tie back both curtains to the last ring so no one can stand inside them. Check behind the shepherd cutout and the snow castle. You keep those spaces empty.”
“Copy.”
“You use what is there.” Matteo shifts his weight, one hand hooked on his belt, voice calm but edged with command. “Lay two folding tables on their sides to form an L-shaped funnel from the side corridor toward the kitchen door. It will forceanyone running the aisle to turn into the kitchen, not out into the lobby. Tape a big DETOUR arrow so it reads like church business. If anything moves through the gap, you see it.”
“Understood.”
He nods once, jaw tight. “Hang a jingle garland chest-high from the coat tree to the piano at stage left.” His fingers sketch the line through the air. “If someone brushes it, it sings. You will hear it from the kitchen.”
“Smart.”
Matteo rolls his shoulders, the motion quiet and heavy. “Dust a thin line of flour at the kitchen threshold and across the back exit. Light hand. You will see prints on the return. Mark the shoes.”
My stomach flips at flour. If they’re using my bakery to catch ghosts, I’ll choose the powder. I keep silent.
He drags a thumb along the faint scar at his knuckle, thinking. “The AV cabinet stays locked. If it’s open, you pull the projector plug and coil the cable twice around your wrist and clip the plug to your belt so no one can light the screen as a distraction. Roll the spare riser in front of the fire door to make any push loud. You do not block. You force noise.Capisce?”
“Capo.”
“And keep your phone on vibrate in your front pocket. Sixty-second updates. If you see anything move, you mark the hand. If that Accord parks, you do not go to it. You call me.”
“Understood.”
He lowers the phone but doesn’t pocket it. He paces once, twice, a short track that burns off nothing. I feel the pressure in his choice. Go after Nico. Stay with us. There’s no right answer, just the one that hurts less if he’s wrong.
“Let me help,” I say, and my voice shakes more than I want. “Put me at the hall. I know those rooms better than anyone. I can?—”
“No.” Not harsh, just final. “I will not put you there.”
“It’s my town,” I push. “My people. You want flour lines? I know where every draft lives. You want to make noise? I know what squeaks. You can’t keep me out of my own life.”
His throat works. For a second, the fight slips, and I see what sits under it, the fear that if he turns his back, something will take us.
“Lila,” he says quietly. “I am split already.”
“I’m not porcelain,” I fire back. “I’m a person standing in her kitchen while you plan around her.”
The phone jumps again. Petro. Matteo lifts it, eyes still on mine.
