ATTICUS
Harmony Harbor’smain street looks like it was designed by someone who binge-watched every Hallmark Christmas movie ever produced and said,yes, this, but year-round.
I walk three paces behind Phoenix and Mason, hands shoved deep in the pockets of my cashmere hoodie, watching them navigate the cobblestone sidewalk like a documentary on human body language. Phoenix bounces along with the barely contained energy of a golden retriever set loose in a dog park, head swiveling left and right to take in every storefront, every painted window box, every hand-lettered chalkboard sign advertising lobster rolls and craft lemonade.
Mason, by contrast, moves like a man on his way to an IRS audit. Phone in hand, thumb scrolling through nothing, jaw locked so tight I can see the tendons jumping from six feet away.
The contrast between them is almost theatrical.
“Oh my God, look at that!” Phoenix grabs Mason’s arm and points to a shop with a faded green awning. The window display features a taxidermied lobster wearing a tiny top hat and monocle. “That lobster is fancier than half the people at last year’s Met Gala.”
Mason glances up from his phone for approximately one-third of a second. “It’s a taxidermy shop.”
“It’sart, Mason. That lobster has more personality than most of the producers I’ve worked with.” She presses her face against the glass, breath fogging a circle on the surface. “I’m going to name him Gerald. Gerald looks like a very fancy man I’d like to get to know better.”
She’s radiant. That’s the only word for it. Stripped of the red carpets and designer armor and constant surveillance, something has unclenched behind her eyes. The copper of her hair catches the late afternoon light slanting between the buildings, and when she laughs, the sound rings off the brick facades like a bell.
I catch myself smiling and don’t bother to stop.
This—thisis the woman who makes me want to stick around for reasons that have nothing to do with ticket sales or tabloid speculation. Not Phoenix the brand or Phoenix the disaster. Just her, inventing backstories for dead crustaceans and looking like she’s never been happier to just stroll down a quaint sidewalk and window shop.
“And this,” Phoenix announces, sweeping her arm toward a white clapboard building with black shutters and a brass plaque by the door, “is clearly the headquarters of Harmony Harbor’s secret society. They meet on Tuesdays to discuss the weather, lobster trap placement, and which outsiders to sacrifice to the sea gods.”
“It’s the town clerk’s office,” Mason says.
Phoenix stops mid-stride.
Mason’s mouth snaps shut. Something flickers across his face—a ripple of recognition, of having said too much—before his expression flattens back to neutral. He lifts his phone and scrolls with renewed intensity.
“How do you know that?” Phoenix tilts her head, squinting at him.
“Sign.” Mason nods toward the building without looking up. “Right there on the plaque.”
Phoenix turns. Studies the brass plaque. From this angle I can see it readsHarmony Harbor Town Clerk — Est. 1847.
“Huh.” She accepts this with a shrug and moves on.
But I don’t miss the way Mason’s shoulders drop half an inch with relief. And I don’t miss the details he keeps slipping—the way his feet navigate the uneven cobblestones without hesitation, the way his body turned left toward the waterfront before Phoenix even suggested heading that direction, the way his eyes tracked to a specific second-floor window above the hardware store and held there for two full seconds before he forced them away.
Mason Aldrich doesn’t just know this town. He knows it the way you know the rooms of the house you grew up in—by feel, by instinct, by the particular muscle memory that comes from walking the same streets a thousand times before your brain was fully formed.
Phoenix rounds the next corner and gasps. “Oh, there’s a little bridge! Over an actual stream! With ducks!”
She jogs ahead, sneakers slapping the pavement, leaving Mason and me in a brief pocket of privacy.
He takes it.
His hand closes around my elbow, firm enough to slow my pace. Not aggressive. Controlled. But when I glance down at his fingers, the knuckles are bone-white.
“You said you wouldn’t say anything to her.” His voice barely qualifies as sound. Lips moving, air passing over vocal cords, nothing more. “I need you to keep that promise tonight.”
I actually regretted offering an opinion before the words were even all the way out, but there’s no helping it now.
“I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”
“At the bar.” He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs like it’s fighting against something trying to climb up his throat. “It would really help if you kept Dominic and Phoenix as far away from each other as possible.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
