I shake my head. “We’ve got a security alarm. I’ll lock the door and set it. And I’ll text Mom. She’ll come home.”
“You sure?” he asks, wavering.
“Yeah,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “She could be on her way back any minute, so I should probably head up.”
I need to check on Evie. Make sure Adrian isn’t harassing her via texts.
“I’m only a few minutes away, if you get freaked out or need backup, or whatever. Not that you can’t handle it yourself. But … you know.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it and hoping he knows it.
“And maybe you could let me know when your mom gets home? I’ll be up for a while.”
“Yeah, no problem. I will,” I say, then gesture upstairs. “I’m gonna …”
“Yep.”
“Good night.”
“G’night,” he says, still sounding concerned.
Everything I wanted to tell him from earlier gets lost under all this new worry. For a moment, I even worry that some of this is my fault—that maybe Adrian wouldn’t have even stopped and threatened us right now if it weren’t for me breaking the Summers & Co Department Store window. But I guess that’s not true; he would’ve come to see Evie regardless.
After Lucky revs his Superhawk’s engine a few times—his eyes on the street, as if he really wasn’t quite sure Adrian was gone—he finally straps on his helmet and drives away from the curb.
Letting out a sigh, I head around the bookshop to the back of the building and jog up the steps. It’s quiet now. Thank God. When I get to the top and stick my key in the door, I hear something in the distance that interrupts the quiet and gives me pause.
Racing engine. Thump of loud music.
They’re coming back.
My pulse rockets. I take the key out of the lock when the brakes squeal.
Then I hear something worse. A terrible sound I know too well.
Glass shattering.
Oh God. No, no, no …
Taking the steps two at a time, I race back down and sail around the bookshop to find the sports car speeding off in the opposite direction on the dark street, its red taillights two glowing eyes. And across the road, the boatyard office window is gone. Shattered. Smashed. Glass tinkling from the open window frame onto the sidewalk.
What did Adrian say? An eye for an eye?
Problem is, he took out the wrong one.
It’s like Summers & Co all over again, only this time it feels so much worse, because it—
Wasn’t an accident.
And it’s the boatyard window.
Not some retail object that showcases luxury goods, that can be replaced by the richest man in town with the snap of his fingers. No. The simple warehouse office window through which a big, happy family laughs.
This is personal.
An old man in a truck slows as he sees the damage.
“Hit and run!” I shout.
