I smiled. Small. Humorless.
"No," I agreed. "You don't."
But she needed something.
She just hadn't admitted it yet.
I pulled the door open. Cold air rushed in, carrying exhaust and distant traffic noise. The real world bleeding into her carefully constructed sanctuary.
I stepped halfway through. Paused. Looked back over my shoulder.
She stood frozen beside the display. Watching me leave with an expression I couldn't quite read—relief, maybe. Or suspicion that this had been too easy.
She thinks this is chance. She thought I'd wandered in by accident. Noticed her bookstore between errands. Made conversation because I was bored or polite or vaguely interested in local color.
She thought coincidence explained my presence.
I knew better. Coincidence was just planning no one had caught yet. "Take care of your family, Belle."
Her name landed soft. Familiar.
I watched her react—the slight widening of her eyes, the breath that caught mid-inhale.
A statement of fact. A reminder that family was fragile. That people you loved broke easier than you wanted to believe. That sometimes taking care of them required choices you'd never imagined making.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Searching for the right response. The dismissal that would end this cleanly.
But I didn't wait. Stepped through the door. Let it close behind me with that same whispered hinge. Didn't look back.
She'd remember this conversation. Would replay it tonight when sleep wouldn't come. When bills stacked higher than answers. When her father's breathing sounded wrong from the next room.
She'd remember my words.
And wonder what the fuck I'd really meant.
The weight of her stare pressed between my shoulder blades—sharp, searching, trying to decode what had just happened. Trying to convince herself she'd imagined the threat beneath my courtesy.
She hadn't.
I reached the SUV parked two blocks down. Same angle I'd used for the past three days. Perfect sightline to her front door, her windows, the narrow alley where delivery trucks barely fit.
Slid behind the wheel but didn't start the engine.
Just waited.
Watched.
Thirty seconds passed before the bookstore lights dimmed. Not off—just reduced. The kind of adjustment someone made when they wanted to see out without being seen.
Smart.
But not smart enough.
Movement flickered behind the glass. Belle's silhouette crossing from display to register, hesitating, doubling back to check the lock.
Once.
Twice.
