Chapter 2 - Beth
I arrange the classics section for the third time today, moving Jane Austen next to the Bronte sisters, then separating them again. My hands won't stop shaking. They never really do anymore.
Pine Haven Books should feel like my sanctuary. Books have always been my escape, my comfort, my friends when real ones were scarce. But even surrounded by thousands of stories, I can't lose myself in any of them. Not when my own story might be coming to an abrupt end.
The bell above the door jingles, and I nearly drop the copy of "Pride and Prejudice" I'm holding. My heart pounds against my ribs until I see it's just Mrs. Fletcher, the elderly woman who's visited every day since I opened last week.
"Good morning, Beth dear," she says, her voice warm and comforting. "Any new mysteries come in?"
I force a smile, trying to steady my breathing. "Not since yesterday, Mrs. Fletcher, but I'm expecting a shipment tomorrow."
"Well, I'll just browse then. Don't mind me."
She wanders toward the mystery section, and I return to straightening books that don't need straightening. The clock on the wall reads 11:37. Twenty-three minutes until they come. The daily check-in. The reminder that I'm living on borrowed time.
Agent Wilson and Agent Cruz. One tall and stern, the other shorter with cold eyes that never quite look directly at me. They ask the same questions every day. Has anyone suspicious come in? Have you received any unusual phone calls? Do you feel safe?
I always lie and say yes to the last one.
I don't feel safe. I haven't felt safe since the day I heard Judge Harmon speaking with Police Commissioner Reynolds and Mayor Blackwell about the "Pine Haven Acquisition." About buying off officials and threatening others. About making examples of people who wouldn't sell their land.
I was just doing my job, recording court proceedings like I'd done for three years. I wasn't supposed to be there early. Wasn't supposed to hear them speaking so candidly while they thought the courtroom was empty. Wasn't supposed to keep recording.
But I did. And now I'm here, hiding in a small town under a name that isn't mine, waiting to testify about things that could get me killed.
The back door rattles, and I freeze. It's the entrance to the stairwell leading to my apartment upstairs. No one uses that door. No one has keys except me and the U.S. Marshals.
Mrs. Fletcher looks up from her book. "Everything alright, dear? You've gone white as a sheet."
"Fine," I manage to squeak out. "Just remembered something I forgot to do."
I move toward the back of the store, heart hammering so loudly I'm sure anyone within ten feet could hear it. The door rattles again, followed by the distinctive sound of a key turning in the lock.
They're not due for another twenty minutes. They always come at noon. Always together. Never through the back.
I reach under the counter, fingers wrapping around the small canister of pepper spray Agent Wilson gave me. Fat lot of good it would do against a professional killer, but it's all I have.
The door swings open, and a man steps through.
Tall and solid, filling the doorframe with broad shoulders.
He's dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt, work boots on his feet and a tool belt slung low on his hips.
Dark hair cut short, military-short. And eyes, green eyes that scan the room with efficiency before landing on me.
Not the Marshals. Not someone I recognize. My finger hovers over the pepper spray nozzle.
"Ms. Carter?" His voice is deep but gentle, like he's trying not to startle a frightened animal. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I am.
"Who are you?" My voice comes out embarrassingly thin and shaky. "How did you get a key?"
He holds up his hands, showing me they're empty. "Sam Davis. Your landlord hired me to renovate the apartment upstairs. Said to let you know I'd be coming and going for the next few weeks."
My landlord. A man I've never met who communicates only through emails. Another layer of my witness protection arrangement.
"I—I wasn't told about any renovations," I stammer, not releasing my grip on the pepper spray.
"Just got the call this morning," he says, reaching slowly into his back pocket and pulling out a folded paper. "Here's the work order if you want to see it."
He extends it toward me, but doesn't come closer, keeping a respectful distance. I hesitate, then step forward to take it.
The paper looks official enough, with a letterhead from Pine Haven Properties and a list of renovations—kitchen cabinets, bathroom remodel, new flooring. All things that don't actually need fixing in my perfectly functional apartment.
"I live up there," I say, my voice stronger now that the initial shock is fading. "These renovations will disturb my living situation."
Something flickers in his green eyes—understanding? Concern?
"The order says you'll have full use of the apartment in the evenings. I'll work 8 to 5, then clear out so you have your privacy." He glances around the store. "Nice place you've got here. You like books, huh?"
The question is so obvious—I own a bookstore—that I almost laugh despite my anxiety. "Yeah. I like books."
Mrs. Fletcher chooses this moment to appear from behind a bookshelf. "Beth, dear, who's your handsome friend?"
I feel a blush creep up my neck. "He's not… This is Mr. Davis. He's going to be doing some work on the apartment upstairs."
"Sam," he corrects, giving Mrs. Fletcher a polite nod. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
"Such good manners," she says with a wink in my direction that makes my blush deepen. "Well, I'd better get going. My program starts at noon." She places a mystery novel on the counter. "Just this one today, dear."
I ring her up, grateful for the distraction. When she's gone, I'm left alone with the stranger, Sam, who will apparently be invading my sanctuary for the foreseeable future.
"I need to go upstairs and see what I'm working with," he says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Is that alright with you?"
The question surprises me. He has the key and the work order. He doesn't need my permission. Yet he's asking anyway.
"I... I guess that's fine," I say, glancing at the clock. 11:48. "But I have... someone coming at noon. A meeting. It's important."
"I'll be quick, then get out of your way."
As he turns toward the stairs, I notice the way he moves. Always alert, like he's constantly aware of his surroundings. Not the casual gait of a regular contractor.
"Mr. Davis?"
He pauses, looking back at me. "Sam."
"Sam," I correct myself. "How long will these renovations take?"
He considers the question. "Depends on what I find once I start opening things up. A few weeks, probably. Maybe longer."
Weeks. Having a stranger in my space for weeks. Someone who could discover who I really am. Someone who might report back to the people trying to find me.
"Is that going to be a problem?" he asks, watching me closely.
Yes, I want to scream. Everything about this is a problem.
"No," I lie instead. "It's fine."
The bell above the door jingles again, and I jump. Agent Wilson and Agent Cruz enter, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. My eyes dart to Sam, who has gone completely still, his posture shifting subtly.
"Ms. Carter," Agent Wilson says, his gaze fixed on Sam. "Everything alright here?"
"Yes," I say quickly. "This is Sam Davis. He's a contractor. Going to be doing some work on the apartment upstairs."
Agent Cruz steps forward, hand moving slightly toward where I know he keeps his weapon. "We weren't informed of any contractors."
Sam doesn't flinch under their scrutiny. "Just got the call this morning. Have the work order right here." He nods toward the paper I'm still holding.
Agent Wilson takes it from me, reviews it, then hands it back with obvious reluctance. "We'll need to see some identification, Mr. Davis."
Sam reaches for his wallet slowly, maintaining eye contact with Wilson as he does. He hands over his driver's license.
Wilson examines it, then returns it with a curt nod. "We'll need to speak with Ms. Carter privately."
"No problem," Sam says, backing toward the stairs. "I'll just take some measurements upstairs and be on my way. Won't take long."
As he disappears up the stairwell, Agent Wilson turns to me. "You shouldn't let strangers in without consulting us first."
"He had a key," I defend weakly. "And the work order."
"Anyone can forge documents," Agent Cruz says, his cold eyes sweeping the store. "Anyone can make a copy of a key."
The familiar questions begin. Has anyone suspicious come in? Have I received any unusual phone calls? Do I feel safe?
Today, more than ever, the answer to the last question is a resounding no. Not with agents arriving off-schedule. Not with strangers appearing with keys to my apartment. Not with the trial date looming closer each day.
I lie anyway. "Yes, I feel safe."
The meeting is shorter than usual. They seem distracted, exchanging glances when they think I'm not looking. Something's changed, but they're not telling me what.
After they leave, Sam comes back downstairs, tool belt jingling softly with each step. He pauses at the counter where I'm pretending to organize receipts.
"Everything okay?" he asks, and there's something in his tone that suggests he's asking about more than just the meeting.
"Fine," I say automatically, the word I've been trained to use no matter what's happening.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning to start work. Is eight too early?"
"Eight is fine." The store doesn't open until nine, but I'm always here by seven, unable to sleep in the strange bed that still doesn't feel like mine.
"Great," he says, heading for the back door. "Oh, and Ms. Carter?"
I look up from the receipts. "Yes?"
"You might want to pick a different hiding place for your pepper spray. Under the counter is the first place someone would look."
My mouth drops open, but before I can respond, he's gone, the door closing softly behind him. I stand frozen behind the counter, staring at the space where he stood. He noticed the pepper spray. He knew exactly what I was reaching for when he first came in.
Who is this man, really? And what does his sudden appearance mean for my already precarious situation?
The bell above the door jingles again, making me jump. Just a customer. An actual customer interested in books.
I paste on my professional smile and try to focus on helping them find what they're looking for. But my mind keeps drifting to green eyes and the strange feeling that my life just got even more complicated.