Chapter 4 - Beth
"Do you have this in hardback?" The teenager holds up a copy of the latest fantasy bestseller, and I force my attention back to the present.
"Yes, over in the Young Adult section," I say, pointing to the display I set up yesterday. "Second shelf from the top."
As she wanders over to find it, I can't stop thinking about the conversation upstairs. Sam knew I had my hand on the pepper spray the entire time. He noticed my wrist was strained from gripping it too tightly. He saw through me completely.
Construction worker? Maybe. But he's something else too. Military, he'd said. Personal protection work. The way he scans rooms, notices details, positions himself with clear sightlines to all exits… Those aren't skills you learn hanging drywall.
The bell jingles again, and an elderly couple enters. I welcome them with my standard smile, offer assistance, then retreat behind the counter when they decline. The store has been busier today than all of last week combined. Word is spreading about Pine Haven's new bookstore.
Under different circumstances, I'd be thrilled. This was always my dream. Owning a small bookstore, being surrounded by stories. But now each new customer is a potential threat, each friendly face a possible mask.
By noon, I'm watching the door with increasing anxiety. Wilson and Cruz haven't shown up yet. They're always punctual, always predictable. Their routine is the one constant in this chaotic new life.
Except today, they're late.
I jump when something crashes upstairs, followed by a muffled curse. Sam, dropping something heavy by the sound of it. The teenage girl browsing the fantasy section looks up at the ceiling, then at me.
"Renovations," I explain with a shrug. "Sorry about the noise."
"No worries. This place is cute." She smiles, bringing her selection to the counter. "I'm glad we finally got a good bookstore in Pine Haven. I was getting tired of ordering everything online."
"I'm glad too," I say, and for a moment, I almost mean it.
After she leaves, I find myself alone in the store again. It's 12:37. Still no sign of the agents.
I should be relieved. Every interaction with them leaves me more anxious, not less. But their absence today feels wrong, like a disruption in gravity. One more unpredictable element in a life that's already spinning out of control.
At 1:15, I can't stand it anymore. I flip the sign to "Back in 15 minutes" and lock the front door. Then I climb the stairs to the apartment, needing some space to think.
I knock softly on the apartment door, which is standing half-open.
"Sam?"
No answer.
I push the door wider and step inside. The kitchen is in disarray, cabinet doors removed and leaning against the walls. Sandpaper and tools are scattered across a tarp on the floor. But no Sam.
"Hello?" I call out, moving further into the apartment.
The bathroom door is open, showing an empty room. My bedroom door is closed, as I left it this morning.
A floorboard creaks behind me, and I whirl around, heart in my throat.
Sam stands in the doorway to the apartment, a fast-food bag in one hand and two drinks in the other.
"Sorry," he says immediately, noticing my panic. "Didn't mean to startle you. I went to grab lunch." He holds up the bag. "Brought enough for two if you're hungry."
My panic subsides, replaced by embarrassment. "I was looking for you."
"Found me." He gives a small smile, setting the food on the counter. "Everything okay downstairs?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm apartment. "I'm just a little on edge today."
Sam stares for a moment, then gestures to the food. "Hungry? Sometimes food helps when I'm stressed."
His casual offer of comfort catches me off guard. I'm not used to kindness from strangers anymore.
"Thanks," I say, accepting the wrapped burger he offers. "That's thoughtful of you."
We eat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes, perched on stools at the kitchen counter. It's nice, this brief moment of normalcy. Of sharing a meal with another person instead of eating alone in my apartment while jumping at every sound.
"Busy morning?" he asks eventually.
"Busier than usual. Lots of curious locals." I take a sip of the soda he brought. "How's the renovation coming along?"
He glances at the dismantled cabinets. "On schedule. Though I dropped a sanding block earlier. Sorry about the noise."
"It's fine. Just startled me."
He nods, watching me with those observant green eyes. "You seem anxious today. More than yesterday."
I stiffen. "I'm fine."
"Sure," he says easily, not pushing. "We all have off days."
The way he says it—casual, non-judgmental—makes me want to tell him the truth. To unburden myself to someone, anyone, after months of carrying this fear alone.
"I'm waiting for someone who hasn't shown up," I admit, surprising myself. "They're usually very punctual."
"Ah." Sam crumples his burger wrapper. "Friend? Boyfriend?"
"Business associates," I say. "They come by every day around noon."
"Maybe they got caught up in something."
"Maybe." But my instincts are screaming that something is wrong. "They're not the type to change routines."
Sam considers this. "Could you call them?"
"I..." I hesitate. I do have the emergency number, but I'm only supposed to use it if I'm in immediate danger. "I don't think so. Not yet."
He doesn't press further, just nods as if my non-answer makes perfect sense. "Well, if you're worried, I'll be around all day. Just in case you need anything."
The offer is casual, but I hear something underneath it: a steadiness, a reliability that's been absent from my life for too long.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it.
"No problem." He stands, gathering our trash. "Better get back to work. Those cabinets won't sand themselves."
I return to the store, feeling slightly better after our impromptu lunch. The afternoon passes slowly, with a few customers but no sign of Wilson and Cruz. By four o'clock, I've given up expecting them.
I'm helping an older woman find a cookbook when the bell jingles. I look up, breath catching when I see two men in suits enter. But they're not Wilson and Cruz. These men are younger, with the same alert posture but different faces.
"Ms. Carter?" the taller one says, approaching the counter while his partner remains by the door.
"Yes?" I manage, my heart racing.
"I'm Agent Richards, this is Agent Thompson. We're with the U.S. Marshals Service." He flashes a badge that I glance at too quickly to verify. "There's been a reassignment in your case. We'll be handling your protection detail moving forward."
My stomach drops. "What happened to Agents Wilson and Cruz?"
"Transferred to another assignment," Richards says smoothly. "Nothing to worry about. Just administrative changes."
But something feels wrong. Wilson and Cruz wouldn't leave without telling me. They weren't friendly, but they were thorough. Professional.
"I wasn't notified of any changes," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Last-minute decision," Thompson speaks up from the door. "We'll be conducting daily check-ins just as before."
The cookbook lady is giving us curious looks, clearly sensing the tension.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," I tell her with a forced smile, then turn back to the agents. "I'm with a customer right now."
"Of course," Richards says. "We just wanted to introduce ourselves. We'll be back tomorrow at noon."
They leave as abruptly as they arrived, the bell jingling behind them.
"Everything alright, dear?" the cookbook lady asks.
"Fine," I lie, my hands trembling slightly as I help her find what she's looking for.
After she leaves, I lock the front door and flip the sign to closed, though it's thirty minutes before my normal closing time. I need to think.
New agents. No warning. No explanation that makes sense.
Something is very wrong.
I hurry upstairs to the apartment, where the sound of sanding has resumed. Sam looks up as I burst in, immediately setting down his tools.
"Beth? What's wrong?"
"Two men just came into the store," I say, my voice shaking. "They said they're my new protection detail. That the others have been transferred."
Sam frowns. "Protection detail?"
I freeze, realizing my mistake. He doesn't know who I am. What I am.
"I... I'm not supposed to talk about it," I stammer.
He approaches slowly, hands visible at his sides like he's trying not to spook a frightened animal. "Beth, are you in some kind of trouble?"
The concern in his voice sounds genuine. And I'm so tired of carrying this alone.
"Yes," I whisper. "But I can't tell you what kind. I'm not allowed."
Sam is quiet for a moment, considering. "These men who came to see you. Did they identify themselves?"
"They said they were U.S. Marshals. Showed badges."
"Did you recognize them from before?"
I shake my head.
"And they replaced people you did know, with no warning?"
"Yes."
Sam's expression darkens. "Do you have someone you can call to verify this change? Someone higher up?"
"An emergency number," I admit. "But I'm only supposed to use it if—"
"If you're in immediate danger," he finishes. His eyes meet mine. "Are you?"
"I don't know," I whisper.
He considers this, then makes a decision. "Use my phone," he says, pulling an old flip phone from his pocket. "It's a burner. Untraceable."
I stare at the offered phone. "Why do you have a burner phone?"
"Because sometimes I don't want to be tracked," he answers simply. "Do you want to make the call or not?"
I take the phone with trembling hands and punch in the emergency number I've memorized. It rings three times before a gruff voice answers.
"This is Rivera. Who is this?"
I freeze. I don't know any Rivera.
"Hello?" the voice demands.
Sam takes the phone gently from my hand. "Sorry, wrong number," he says, then hangs up. His eyes meet mine, and I see concern there. "Not who you expected?"
"No." My voice is barely audible. "It should have been Marshal Johnson. He's the head of my protection detail."
Sam's expression turns serious. "Beth, I think you should pack a bag."
"What?"
"Essential items only. Things you can't replace. Just as a precaution."
I stand frozen, unable to process what's happening. "You think I'm in danger."
"I think something's changed, and until you can verify what's going on, we need to be cautious." He moves to the window, glancing down at the street. "Are there any customers still in the store?"
"No. I locked up early."
He nods. "Good. Pack a bag. We can figure out the next steps after that."
"I can't just leave! I have... obligations. Responsibilities."
"Beth." His voice is gentle but firm. "I don't know what your situation is, but I know when something doesn't add up. New agents with no warning? An emergency contact who's been replaced? Those are red flags in any security situation."
The tears I've been holding back all day threaten to spill over. "This can't be happening. I did everything they told me to. I followed all the rules."
"Sometimes the rules don't protect us," Sam says quietly. "Sometimes we have to protect ourselves."
I wipe at my eyes. "I don't know what to do."
"Let me help you." He holds out his hand. "I know somewhere you can go to think this through. Just until you figure out what's happening."
I stare at his outstretched hand. I've known this man for barely twenty-four hours. He appeared suddenly, with a key to my apartment and too many convenient skills. For all I know, he could be working for the people trying to find me.
But my instincts, the same ones telling me something is terribly wrong with my protection detail, say I can trust him.
"Why?" I ask, not taking his hand yet. "Why would you help me? You don't even know me."
"Because it's the right thing to do," he says finally. "And I don't walk away from people in trouble. Not anymore."
There's a story there, a wound still healing. But there's no time to ask about it now.
The front bell jingles downstairs, loud in the quiet apartment. Someone's trying to enter the locked store.
Sam stands, instantly alert. "Are you expecting anyone?"
I shake my head, rising on unsteady legs.
A loud knock follows, then another, more insistent.
"Stay here," Sam orders, moving silently toward the stairs.
"Wait," I call softly. "What if it's them? The new agents?"
He pauses. "Stay out of sight. I'll see who it is."
As he disappears down the stairs, I move to my bedroom, pulling my emergency backpack from under the bed. I've had it ready since the day I entered witness protection. Clothes, toiletries, some cash, and my real identification hidden in a secret pocket.
My hands shake as I add a few more items to the bag: the photo of my parents I keep hidden in my nightstand, my favorite book, the small stuffed rabbit I've had since childhood. Silly, sentimental things that won't help me survive, but I can't bear to leave them behind.