"There are voices outside. Coming closer." His head tilted, those alien ears catching sounds mine couldn't detect.
My body went rigid. The druggies. His stab wound. Blood soaking through his shirt. Not to mention the mercenaries that could still be hunting me. The memories crashed over me, and my stomach twisted into a sick knot.
"It sounds like rescuers," Xabat said, already rolling to his feet and snatching his clothes from where we'd scattered them across the floor.
I scrambled after him, yanking on my clothes with shaking hands, my heart hammering against my ribs as I tugged my sweatshirt over my head.
Xabat positioned himself by the window, every muscle taut, his eyes scanning the world outside. "There are boats. People helping with the cleanup."
I moved to his side and peered through the gap in the boards. Despite the destruction, despite the flooding and the sheer magnitude of the disaster, people were already out there. They waded through hip-deep water, navigated around debris, called out to check on anyone who might be stranded. Neighbors in fishing boats traversed the flooded streets. A group in rain gear cleared debris from what used to be the main road, working together to haul away a massive palm. Someone had set up a folding table under a blue tarp, handing out water bottles and snacks, the makeshift relief station already drawing a small crowd.
This was what I'd always loved about living here. This resilience that emerged when disaster struck. When the worst happened, people didn't wait for someone else to fix it. They just showed up. They helped. No questions, no hesitation, no expectation of reward.
Humanity could be really awesome sometimes.
I left Xabat standing sentry and busied myself cleaning up our makeshift campsite—folding towels, gathering empty snack wrappers and bottles, making sure the tally I'd been keeping for the shop's owners was up to date. Each item carefully recorded with its price. We owed a little over $400. Xabat liked junk food. Apparently, even alien metabolisms craved salt and sugar.
"Three males nearby," Xabat murmured, materializing beside me. I glanced up, catching one last glimpse of his true face—those purple eyes, that sage green skin—before the cuddwisg device shimmered and rendered him human again.
Three sharp, authoritative knocks rattled the door. "Police. Anyone in there?"
Xabat's hand found mine, his fingers wrapping around my palm, protective and comforting. He squeezed once—a silent promise that we'd face whatever came next together.
"Yes," I called out, fighting to keep my voice steady. To sound like someone who had nothing to hide, nothing to fear.
The door wheezed and groaned like a dying elephant as they forced it open, wood scraping against the frame with a sound that set my teeth on edge. Three men stepped through. Their eyes swept the interior, flickering across every surface and shadow, taking everything in with a single glance. Badges hung at their belts glinted in the dim light. Radios mounted on their shoulders, offered occasional bursts of static. Everything looked right. The patches on their dark blue uniforms were crisp and official, the gear regulation-issue, even the way they stood with that particular cop stance, weight balanced, hands near their belts.
But something about them made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
Maybe it was how clean they were. Everyone else I'd seen outside was mud-splattered and soaked through. These guys looked like they'd just stepped out of a locker room. Uniforms pressed and pristine, not a speck of debris on them. Their boots weren't even wet. The leather still gleamed, untouched by the mud that covered everything outside.
Or maybe it was the way their eyes moved. Not scanning the room with the concerned, methodical sweep you'd expect from cops checking on storm survivors. But searching. Hunting for something.
The one in front—older, with graying temples that gave him an air of authority—smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze slid past me to Xabat and lingered there a beat too long. Assessing. Calculating. "Do you own this store?"
Something in the way he asked told me he knew damn well we didn't.
"No." The word came out smaller than I intended, and I felt Xabat's hand tighten on mine. "I have a beach house onOcean Boulevard. We were closing it up, and time just got away from us. When the tide came in, we got cut off, so we took shelter here." Not exactly the truth, but less suspicious than what really happened.
"Ah." The younger of the trio—a man with sharp features and cold eyes that reminded me of a shark—gave a curt nod, his lips pursing in disapproval. "So, what you're saying is that you broke in and made yourself at home."
"I know the owners." The lie rolled easily off my tongue. I held out the brown paper bag where I'd kept the accounting, my hand trembling despite my efforts to keep it steady. "I've kept track of everything we used, and we'll settle up as soon as we see them."
The older cop seemed to buy my explanation. His expression softened fractionally, the tension in his shoulders easing. The younger one, not so much. His eyes remained hard and suspicious, his jaw tight, but he followed the elder's lead, stepping back slightly. The third officer—a heavyset man with a thick neck and meaty hands—seemed completely uninterested in the conversation. Instead, he moved slowly and deliberately through the store, peering down aisles and behind displays. Xabat never turned his head, gave no outward sign of tracking the man's movements, but I knew he followed every step, every gesture.
"We'd like to make sure everything is okay," the older one said, his voice taking on a more official tone. He pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket, the pages dog-eared, and clicked a pen with his thumb. "I'm going to need both of your names for the report."
"Harper Quinn." I squeezed Xabat's hand—a signal to follow my lead. He returned the squeeze, his fingers pressing against mine in acknowledgment. "This is my boyfriend, Michael Roberts—” a name I borrowed from one of my favoriteromance novels. Please, God, don't let them ask for ID. "My house is 384 Ocean Boulevard."
The cop grunted, a noncommittal sound deep in his throat, writing the information down in his pad, his pen scratching across the paper. The younger man had retreated, meandering over to check outside the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the morning sun. The third continued his slow canvas of the store, his heavy footsteps echoing against the walls. I knew this routine.
My worry deflated like a punctured balloon. These men weren't here for me. Just cops doing post-hurricane canvassing, checking on businesses, making sure no one was trapped or injured. Nothing sinister, nothing dangerous. Just procedure. How many times had Seth described being on the same type of assignment?
I relaxed. My grip on Xabat's hand loosening.
"You'll need to follow us out," the older one said, tucking his pad back in his pocket. "We have instructions to shore up all businesses."
"Of course." I reached down and grabbed my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. "Now that the storm is over, we can get back to the house." Xabat squeezed my hand again, his touch warm and reassuring. I squeezed back to signal that everything was okay, and felt him relax beside me.
