The way one of them pauses just inside the doorway—not to admire the shelves, but to scan the space. Quick. Controlled. Like she’s cataloging exits. My fingers tighten slightly around the pen. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m jumping at shadows. But then?—
The second woman drifts toward the front display, not picking anything up, just… hovering. Watching. I force myself to move, like this is any other day, any other customer.
“Let me know if you need help finding anything,” I say, keeping my voice light.
The first woman turns to me, her smile easy.
“Thanks,” she says. “We’re just browsing.”
Normal. Completely normal. Except?—
Her eyes linger a second too long. Not on me. On the layout of the store. I nod, returning to the counter, but I don’t stop paying attention. I can’t. Because Conrad’s voice is still in the back of my mind.
If they think taking you gives them an advantage, they’ll try.
And Archer?—
Archer saying they were mapping patrol routes. Planning. Which means this? This isn’t random. This is part of something bigger. I glance down at the notebook and jot quickly:
Two female tourists — scanning entry points, not browsing naturally. 10:14 AM.
The pen scratches softly against the paper. My pulse ticks just a little faster. Not fear.
Awareness.
By noon, I’ve written down six separate entries. Six. All subtle. All easy to dismiss individually. But together? Together, they form a pattern. People who don’t quite behave like tourists. People who linger too long near doors. People who ask casual questions about things that aren’t actually casual.
“How busy does it get here at night?”
“Do you stay open late?”
“Is there much foot traffic after dark?”
On their own? Harmless. Combined? Not so much. I tap the pen against the page, staring at the notes.
“They’re here,” I murmur under my breath.
Not just watching from the outside. Inside. Blending in. Using the town’s openness against it. The realization settles heavy in my chest. Because if they’re already this comfortable?—
Then we’re closer to something breaking than anyone wants to admit.
Delilah doesn’t look surprised when I tell her. She doesn’t panic, either. Which somehow makes it worse.
“You noticed it too,” she says, leaning against the counter like we’re discussing the weather.
“Yes,” I reply. “And I’m pretty sure they’re not just here for books.”
Her lips twitch faintly.
“No,” she agrees. “They’re not.”
Brooke shifts near the door, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp as it tracks a man walking past the window.
“Tourist season just got a lot more interesting,” she mutters.
I glance between them.
“That’s it?” I ask. “No shock? No ‘oh my God, Tessa, you’ve uncovered a secret infiltration plot’?”
