We moved carefully through the storage room into Bookmark Haven. The bookstore spread before us like a literary sanctuary—floor-to-ceiling shelves creating intimate corridors between sections, comfortable reading nooks tucked into corners with plush armchairs worn smooth by years of readers, and small lamps casting pools of golden light that seemed to make the books' spines glow with promise. A coffee counter stood silent along one wall, its espresso machine gleaming dully in the low light. The air carried notes of cinnamon and old paper, of leather bindings and the faint citrus of furniture polish.
In another life—a normal life, the life I'd had just three days ago—this place would have been a haven indeed. Now it was just another calculated risk.
A soft thud came from the office at the back of the store, followed by the scrape of a chair on hardwood. Matt shifted beside me, his body angling slightly to shield mine, despite knowing I was perfectly capable of defending myself—an old habit born of affection rather than doubt in my abilities.
The office door opened, spilling brighter light across the floorboards. Sarah Winters emerged, a stack of papers in her hands, her head bent over them in concentration. She took three steps before freezing, her awareness of our presence hitting her like a physical blow. The papers scattered as her hands flew up in startled defense.
"Who's—" she began, then her eyes widened with recognition. "Eva Rae?"
"I'm sorry to frighten you," I said quickly, keeping my voice low and my hands visible. "We needed somewhere safe to talk."
Sarah's gaze darted between Matt and me, then to the door behind us, then back again. Her hand moved to her throat in that unconscious self-protective gesture humans make when threatened. I watched emotions chase across her face—shock, fear, confusion, and then something that looked like determination.
"I've seen your face all over the news," she said, bending to gather the fallen papers with trembling fingers. "They're saying you killed someone. That you're dangerous."
"I didn't kill anyone," I said, staying where I was to avoid frightening her further. "I'm being framed, Sarah. Someone planted a body in my car and broke my taillight to make sure I'd be caught with it."
Sarah straightened, papers clutched against her chest like armor. She wore the same kind of casual, comfortable clothes I remembered—a loose sweater over jeans, practical flats, her brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Nothing about her appearance suggested anything but the bookish, friendly woman I'd met during my signing.
"Come into my office," she said after a moment, glancing toward the front of the store as if expecting police to burst through at any moment. "You shouldn't be standing out here where someone might see you through the windows."
We followed her into the cramped office—a space made smaller by overflowing bookshelves and stacks of publisher catalogs. A desk dominated the center, its surface buried under paperwork, coffee mugs, and a laptop displaying a spreadsheet. Sarah closed the door behind us, then leaned against it, still clutching her papers.
"I need to understand what's happening," she said, her voice steadier now.
I sank into one of the visitor chairs, suddenly aware of how exhausted I was. "The man—Richard Collins—was planted in my trunk. I never met him before seeing his body."
“He was at the book signing, though,” Sarah said.
“He was? I don’t remember him,” I said.
“Well, you signed thousands of books and read to an entire room filled with hundreds of people, so why would you remember one face?” Sarah's eyes widened slightly as she continued. "He worked at Meridian Financial as an accountant, but loved mysteries and anything related to policework."
I leaned forward. "You knew him?"
Sarah set the papers on her desk with deliberate care. "He was a regular customer. Came in every Thursday for the new mystery releases. Always bought two—one thriller, one classic detective story." Her voice softened. "I can't believe he's dead. He was such a lovely man."
Matt and I exchanged glances. Our first real connection to the victim, our first potential thread to pull. The bookstore.
"Sarah," I said carefully, "I need to know everything about him. Who he spoke to, what he was like, and if he ever mentioned any troubles. Anything that might help me understand why someone would kill him and use him to frame me."
Sarah pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers noticeably unsteady. "I don't know much about his personal life. He was quiet and polite. Mentioned work sometimes, complaining about audits and deadlines. I guess you could say we flirted a little. Maybe that’s why he kept coming in." She hesitated, glancing at her phone on the desk. "But he did seem… nervous these past few weeks—looking over his shoulder a lot. I asked if he was okay, and he said something about discovering numbers that didn't add up."
My pulse quickened. "Numbers that didn't add up? Like financial discrepancies?"
"I think so." Sarah wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t believe he’s gone, though. It makes me so sad.”
I reached for her hand, and she let me grab it. Our eyes met, and I could tell she wasn’t afraid of me. “I… we… need your help. Can we trust you?”
Her lips became narrow, her eyes scrutinizing both of us. Then she nodded. “Okay. I want to believe you. How can I help?”
Relief washed through me—a potential ally, and our first lead, all in one conversation.
Chapter 11
THEN:
Ann's alarm blared for the third time, finally piercing through her dreams of watchful brown eyes and a smile that transformed severity into warmth. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before the realization crashed over her—today she might see Marcus again. The thought sent her lurching upright, sleep forgotten as anticipation flooded her system, her heart already racing though her feet hadn't even touched the floor.
