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“We’re not searching for anything yet. We’re checking on Murphy and getting the planner.”

“Having Birdie with you doesn’t make it safe. She restores furniture, Cassie. She’s not security.”

Birdie folds her arms when I repeat the comment. “Tell him I own a crowbar.”

“Birdie owns a crowbar,” I relay.

“That doesn’t improve the plan,” Andrei replies.

I start the engine. “We’ll only be there for a few minutes, and then we’re coming to the vineyard. I’m not agreeing to anything else until we talk in person.”

“You assume this is a negotiation.”

“You assume it isn’t.” I end the call before another order arrives and glance at Birdie. “He’s exhausting.”

“You liked that conversation far too much.” Birdie pulls her seat belt tighter across her chest and gives me a knowing look. “I saw your face when he said your name.”

I glare at her, then back out of the parking space. “Stop talking.”

During the drive back to Aldermere, Birdie and I list every book Connor might associate with me. We begin with the novels Grandma loved and move through the books Connor and I shared as children, but nothing feels like an obvious choice.

Rain mists across the windshield as we reach Main Street, turning the storefront windows dull beneath the gray sky. Most of the businesses remain closed on Sundays, and only a few cars line the curb. I turn into the alley and park behind the bookstore. The security light remains on above the green door.

“Did you leave that on?” Birdie asks as she unfastens her seat belt.

“It comes on when something moves.”

I wait for it to shut off, but the light continues shining over the wet bricks and three concrete steps. Nothing moves near the recycling bins or the neighboring buildings.

“It was probably a cat,” I say, although the explanation doesn’t quiet the uneasy feeling in my stomach.

Murphy is waiting on the other side when I unlock the door. His orange face appears through the gap, but instead of trying to push past my legs, he backs away with his ears angled toward the entrance.

“Hello to you too,” Birdie says as she steps inside behind me.

Murphy ignores her. His body remains low, and his attention stays fixed on the door as a deep, rumbling growl vibrates in his throat.

I close the door and turn the deadbolt. “Murphy?”

A faint scrape comes from the alley side of the lock.

Birdie stops behind me with the bakery box held against her chest. I raise one finger, and we listen. Rain taps against the metal awning, and water splashes from the gutter near the steps. Beneath those sounds, a shoe brushes across loose gravel.

Someone is outside.

I reach for my phone while Birdie sets the box on a shelf and pulls a heavy brass candlestick from a display.

“Call nine-one-one,” I whisper.

Birdie dials while I open the security camera application. The live feed shows the rear corner of my Subaru and a narrow section of the alley, but no one is standing near the door. Whoever made the noise has moved outside the camera’s view.

Murphy creeps closer to the entrance, fur rising along his back. Another scrape sounds near the latch, followed by a quiet metallic click.

“Someone may be trying the back lock,” Birdie tells the dispatcher before giving our address. Her voice remains clear, although her fingers tighten around the phone. “We’re inside, and the door is locked.”

The knob turns once.

I grab Birdie’s arm and pull her away from the entrance. We move behind the sales counter, putting as much distance between us and the door as possible. She holds the candlestick in one hand and the phone in the other while I bring up Andrei’s number.