“Of course,” Annie said, setting the book down. “Back through that door. First door on the right.”
“Thank you so much.” The woman’s smile flashed bright, but something about it stayed surface-level, like a mask worn too often. “Come on, sweetie.”
Annie watched them disappear down the short hall. Then she looked at the front windows again.
Jack stood outside somewhere—he had to. He wouldn’t leave her alone. Not after last night. Not after Eric.
She went back to the box, but the woman’s presence lingered in Annie’s peripheral awareness like an itch. She tried to ignore it and let her hands keep moving. Pages, covers, spines. She checked a slim journal with blank vellum pages and found nothing. She opened a cracked poetry collection and shook it gently. Nothing fell out.
Routine steadied her.
Then the hall creaked. Footsteps approached.
The woman emerged with her daughter, who looked relieved enough to float.
“Thank you again,” the woman said. She didn’t head for the door. She lingered, eyes sweeping the shop—not the waya customer admired antiques, but the way an auditor assessed inventory. Her gaze paused on the boxes. On Annie’s laptop. On the open ledger where Annie tracked purchases.
Annie’s pulse ticked faster.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” the woman added, “but are you the owner? This shop is adorable.”
“Yes.” Annie kept her expression friendly. Neutral. “Annie Whitaker.”
She extended her hand. The woman clasped it—and squeezed with confidence that didn’t match the damsel-in-distress tone from a moment ago. Her grip felt practiced. Firm. Steady.
“Sarah Mitchell,” the woman said. “And this is Emma.”
“Nice to meet you,” Annie said, releasing the handshake.
Sarah’s gaze landed on the disarray—overturned furniture, scattered papers, the displaced display case. “I heard you had quite an ordeal last night. A break-in, or something?”
The casual delivery prickled Annie’s skin.
News traveled fast in Fairview. It always had. But this felt too exact. Too immediate. Like the woman hadn’t simply heard gossip—like she’d heard details.
Annie forced a small laugh. “Kids, probably. Somebody looking for trouble.”
Sarah tilted her head, studying Annie as if she weighed the answer. “How awful. People don’t respect anything anymore.”
Emma tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Can we go now?”
“Of course.” Sarah smiled again, then turned her attention back to Annie one last time. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
She took Emma’s hand and walked out.
Annie found herself at the window, watching them cross Main Street. Sarah pulled out her phone almost immediately and began speaking, her free hand punctuating her words with small movements. Not frantic. Not worried. Efficient.
Annie’s throat tightened.
Calm down, she told herself. She’s talking to her husband. She’s making dinner plans. She’s normal.
Normal people didn’t always behave the way Annie expected. Annie knew that better than anyone. She’d built a career on understanding how people hid what they didn’t want seen.
Still, her instincts wouldn’t quiet.
She scanned the street until she spotted Jack—leaning against a telephone pole near the corner of the building, phone to his ear. Relief washed through her so sharply it almost made her dizzy.
He stayed close.
