By midmorning, the shop is open, but Bailey isn’t behind the counter. She’s upstairs with the files spread across the floor, tracing timelines, matching fonts, cataloging inconsistencies.
Lila drops off pastries and war-grade caffeine, then takes one look at Bailey’s expression and says, “Whoever did this should start running.”
I man the register. I’m not built for stillness, but today, I hold it because she needs it. Customers come in whispering encouragement, dropping cash into the donation box, and promising to write letters to the foundation.
By noon, the cat is judging us from the railing, and Bailey is muttering code sections under her breath.
I crouch beside her. “Eat something.”
She points at the stack of papers. “Not until I figure out who typed this fake clause. There’s a watermark that doesn’t match the rest of the file.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Flattering won’t distract me. I watch a lot ofTrue Crime.”
I lean closer. “It might.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re insufferable.”
“But effective,” I say, stealing a bite of her pastry. “You taught me that.”
She shakes her head but finally sits back, exhaustion replacing adrenaline.
We take a walk at sunset because Lila insisted on “airing the conspiracy brain.” The town feels different now—proud, protective, a little dangerous in its unity. Every porch we pass waves, every window glows. Coral Bell doesn’t just root for you; it circles the wagons.
Bailey’s quiet beside me, hands buried in her jacket pockets. I reach over, threading my fingers through hers.
“You’re somewhere else,” I say.
“I’m in three places at once,” she admits. “Past me is terrified. Present me is furious. Future me is trying to remember how to sleep. My grandfather is probably rolling over in his grave.”
“Let me help with that sleeping one.”
She glances up, a spark returning to her eyes. “You offering to read me a bedtime story?”
“Only the spicy chapters,” I say.
She laughs, full-bodied this time, and it sounds like hope.
The late rain that rolls in after midnight is lazy, with more wind than rain. Bailey lights candles in the kitchen, the flames flickering against the old brick. We make tea because pretendingto be civilized is easier than acknowledging how close the fear sits beneath the surface.
She’s wearing one of my hoodies, sleeves swallowing her hands. The hem hits just above her thighs, and I’m halfway to forgetting every rational thought I’ve ever had.
She catches my stare. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Just cataloging,” I say. “For posterity.”
“Posterity, huh?” She steps closer, eyes teasing but soft. “You always this poetic when you’re about to do something stupid?”
“Only with you.”
I set my mug down, reach for her, and the world narrows again.
This time, there’s no rush, no interruption, no crisis banging on the door. Just us. Her breath, my heartbeat, the thunder rolling miles away like an approving drum.
