Chapter 4
Gideon
I waited until a quarter past eleven.
Late enough that morning routines had settled. Early enough that lunch traffic hadn't begun. The sweet spot where attention wandered, where someone working alone might relax their guard for half a breath.
The bookstore sign hung crooked in the window. OPEN, but the letters looked uncertain. Like whoever flipped it hadn't quite committed.
I pushed through the door.
No bell. No chime. Just the whisper of hinges that needed oil.
The lights carried that cold quality—fluorescents still warming, blue-tinged and incomplete.
The chalkboard beside the register displayed yesterday's quote, half-smudged where someone's sleeve had caught it.
She never leaves it like that. Chalk dust ghosted across dark paint, words bleeding into erasure.
The whole space felt thinner than it had two nights ago. Exposed in daylight what shadow had softened. Narrow aisles. Worn carpet. Shelves that leaned slightly left, propped by books that hadn't sold.
A wound that hadn't finished bleeding.
I stepped past the threshold. Let the door close behind me but didn't move further.
Not hiding.
Not announcing myself.
Just standing in the space between greeting and intrusion, weight balanced, hands loose at my sides.
Waiting.
She emerged from the back room carrying a stack of hardcovers—literary fiction, spines facing out.
Her arms strained slightly under the weight.
Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath her eyes, makeup absent or abandoned.
Hair pulled back in something functional, not styled.
The kind of morning where presentation came second to simply showing up.
She made it three steps before she stopped. Didn't drop the books. Didn't startle. Just stopped.
Her posture shifted. Shoulders back. Chin lifting by millimeters.
She felt it faster than most.
"Hello." Her voice carried no inflection. Statement, not welcome. She crossed to a display table, set the stack down with controlled precision. "Can I help you find something?"
I smiled. Not wide. Not aggressive. Just enough curve at the corner of my mouth to acknowledge the theater of it—her pretending she didn't recognize me, me pretending I'd wandered in by accident.
"I didn't realize you were open." I gestured vaguely toward the window. "Sign looked temporary."
"We opened late." She straightened the stack she'd just set down. Aligned edges that were already aligned. "Family emergency."
Two words. No elaboration.
Testing whether I'd press.
"Nothing serious, I hope."
Her hands stilled on the books. "No," she said. Clipped. Final.
The fluorescents overhead buzzed faintly. Electrical hum filling the silence between her lie and my patience.
I took two steps deeper into the store. Casual. Unhurried. Let my gaze drift across shelves, spines, the small touches that marked this place as hers—handwritten recommendation cards, staff picks displayed face-out, a reading nook with a lamp that didn't match.
"It's quieter than I expected," I said.
"Gideon Jones."
I guessed she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know me anymore.
My name landed flat. No awe threading through it. No shift in her breathing, no softening around the edges where most women melted into performance—the slightly breathless recognition, the manufactured surprise.
Just my name. Clinical. A fact catalogued and dismissed.
I noted the tone. The way she straightened without moving her feet. The deliberate absence of anything resembling warmth.
She still thinks denying me reaction is power.
I let my smile deepen. Slow. Knowing.
Indulgent.
"You remember." I said it soft, like the recollection pleased me. Like I'd hoped for exactly this.
Her jaw tightened. "Small town."
Throwing my own line back.
I tucked my hands into my coat pockets. Relaxed my shoulders. Gave her casual—unguarded, almost apologetic.
"I was in the area," I said. Gestured toward the front window. "Arena's only three blocks over. Saw the lights on."
Truth. Technically.
I had been in the area.
For forty minutes.
Parked two streets down where the angle gave me a clear sight of her front door.
"I'd heard about this place," I continued. Stepped toward the fiction section, let my gaze skim titles without really seeing them. "Independent bookstores are rare. Most people don't bother anymore."
She didn't respond immediately.
I felt her watching. Evaluating. Searching for the angle she knew existed but couldn't name yet.
"Most people stream," she said finally. "Read on tablets. We cater to a specific clientele."
"People who like quiet."
"People who like books."
I pulled a hardcover from the shelf at random. The Great Alone. Turned it over in my hands like I gave a fuck about the back copy.
"I prefer quiet places," I said. Glanced at her. Held her gaze just long enough to make the statement personal. "Crowds get exhausting."
Her expression didn't shift. Didn't soften. But something flickered behind her eyes—recognition, maybe. Or suspicion sharpening into certainty.
She doesn't believe a word.
Good.
Skepticism suited her better than fear. Made this interesting instead of inevitable.
I set the book back. Aligned the spine with the others.
"You don't strike me as someone who avoids crowds," she said. Polite. Distant. The kind of observation designed to close a conversation, not open one.
I smiled again. "I avoid the wrong kind."
"And what's the right kind?"
"The kind that doesn't perform." I let that sit between us. Watched her absorb it. "You didn't come to the game last week."
Her shoulders tensed. Minute shift, barely visible.
But I saw it.
"I don't follow hockey."
"Most people in this town do."
"I'm not most people."
No.
She wasn't.
That was why I was here.
I stepped back toward the door. Gave her space she hadn't asked for but would register, anyway. Let her think she'd successfully managed the encounter. Controlled the exit.
I paused at a display table near the register. Travel memoirs stacked beside local histories. Arrangement deliberate—color-coordinated spines, heights varied to create visual rhythm.
Someone had spent time on this.
"You've built something here." I let my hand rest on the table edge. Didn't touch the books. "Most stores this size feel temporary. Like they're waiting to become something else."
She tracked my movement. Eyes sharp, calculating.
"This doesn't," I continued. Gestured at the shelves, the reading nook, the handwritten cards tucked between titles. "It feels intentional. Like someone who knows exactly what they're doing."
"Thank you." Flat. Automatic.
The kind of response designed to end compliments before they landed.
I smiled. "Your father must be proud."
There.
The stillness.
Not a freeze—too controlled for that. But something in her spine locked. Vertebrae compressing by millimeters. Her shoulders drew back, chest expanding on an inhale that didn't quite complete.
Her jaw shifted. Muscle jumping beneath skin.
Eyes narrowing by fractions.
Found it.
"Hard worker," I said. Kept my tone easy. Conversational. "Must run in the family."
She didn't blink. Didn't step back. But her hands curled at her sides. Fingers pressing into palms. "How do you know my father?"
Question delivered without inflection. Clean. Direct. Testing whether I'd stumble. Whether I'd reveal too much.
I tilted my head. Let silence stretch for a breath. Two. Then shrugged. "Small town."
Her expression didn't shift. But something behind her eyes sharpened.
She doesn't believe me.
Of course she didn't.
Smart girl.
"Players eat at the same restaurants," I continued. Casual. Unhurried. "Shop at the same stores. You see people. Recognize faces." I paused. Met her gaze. Held it. "Your father's been around a long time. People talk."
"About what."
Not a question.
A demand.
I smiled. Soft. Almost apologetic. "Community things," I said. Vague enough to mean nothing. Specific enough to imply everything. "Business. Family. The usual."
Her jaw tightened further.
I watched the tendons in her neck shift. Watched her swallow against whatever response wanted to surface.
She didn't ask what I meant. Didn't press for details. Because pressing meant admitting she didn't know what people said about her father. What conversations happened in rooms she couldn't access. Admitting ignorance gave me power. So she stayed silent. Let the implication hang.
Clever.
I glanced toward the window. Light streaming through glass, illuminating dust motes suspended in air. The street beyond quiet. Empty.
No customers. No interruptions.
Just the two of us and the truth she wouldn't ask for.
"I should let you work." I stepped toward the door. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her time to stop me.
She didn't.
I paused with my hand on the frame. Looked back. She stood exactly where I'd left her. Rigid. Guarded. Beautiful in the way wounded things were—all sharp edges and defiance.
The exhaustion showed in the set of her mouth. Lips pressed thin, corners pulled down in a way that had nothing to do with our conversation and everything to do with the weight she'd been carrying before I walked through the door.
She'd hidden it well at first. The posture. The controlled movements. The sharp replies designed to keep distance. But now—standing there with morning light cutting across her face—the cracks showed.
Dark circles beneath her eyes, deeper than makeup could've masked. Skin pale in a way that suggested missed meals, not genetics. The kind of pallor that came from adrenaline crashes and hospital waiting rooms.
Family emergency.
Her words, not mine.
But I'd watched the ambulance pull up to this address thirty-six hours ago. Watched paramedics wheel someone out on a stretcher while Belle followed behind, purse forgotten, coat hanging off one shoulder.
She'd returned alone hours later. Moved through the darkened store like a ghost haunting her own life.