Oh God. Oh God.
This can’t be happening. Eric is law enforcement. He walks around town like he owns it. And yet?—
He’s being manhandled like he’s nothing.
Panic prickles up my spine. I half-turn back toward the counter. Bruce is watching me with worried eyes.
“Do you need something else, miss?” he asks, and for a heartbeat I almost point to what’s happening across the street. But something deep inside, something that wriggles at thewrongnessof the sight, makes me stop.
“No—I—I’m fine,” I stammer, glancing back toward the window.
Outside, the man lifts Eric even higher, forcing him onto his toes. He’s disturbingly strong for looking so tall and thin. Words are exchanged—quiet, but clearly venomous from the way the stranger bares his teeth. Eric’s face is turning red, then purple around the edges.
“Call someone,” I whisper to myself. “Should I call someone?”
But who?
Eric is the someone you call in Bar Harbor. Eric is the police. If he’s the one getting threatened, ifheis the one being handled like a problem. What the hell is going on?
My fingers hover over my phone, trembling. I should call Mak. All it would take is double-tapping on the last text he sent me.
No. No, absolutely not. That’s crossing a boundary I can’t afford to cross right now.
And yet…is this something he should know about? Would he want to know? Would he expect me to tell him, the way everyone else who works for him vomits information the moment they see him?
The man finally releases Eric.
Eric doubles over, coughing violently, grasping his throat with both hands. The suited man puts his jacket back on with eerie calm. No haste. No guilt. Just smooth, practiced movements.
He says one more thing—something unmistakably threatening—before turning and walking away like he didn’t nearly strangle a cop in broad daylight.
Eric stays hunched over for several long seconds. Then, he slowly looks up.
And sees me.
His eyes lock onto mine through the hardware store window. It hits me like a physical blow—the hatred and shame.
My breath catches, and I step backward instinctively, colliding with a display of bird feeders. They clatter, and the Bruce calls out again, but I’m already turning, ducking into the nearest aisle, heart pounding so hard I can taste metal.
I need to get out.
I abandon the basket on a shelf and walk briskly toward the exit, swallowing down panic, swallowing down the guilt that isn’tmine to carry. Outside, the air feels heavy and oppressive against my lungs. My hands shake as I dig my keys out of my purse.
Should I tell Mak?
The question churns through me like something acidic.
He told me to keep Andrea close. He told me we’d talk later. He told me?—
No.
I stop at the door of my SUV, my hand frozen on the handle.
Boundaries.
I need boundaries with him. Need to hold something of myself back before he takes everything. Before I give everything.
I won’t tell him, not yet. Not until we talk about Andrea and what this means, and whatsheneeds. That’s the most important thing.
