“Three days ago.”
The quiet man next door vanishes beneath the fire chief in less than a second. His attention moves through the room, assessing the fixtures, the kitchen beyond me, the old walls as if he can somehow see the wiring hidden inside them.
“I am fine,” I say.
“I didn’t ask.”
Something warm settles beneath my ribs before I can stop it.
Of course that is his answer.
Zain fixes things without permission. He replaced a loose board on my porch during my second month in town and acted irritated when I thanked him. He notices when children are frightened at community events and somehow always ends up crouched beside them. Apparently, he also walks over after a long shift because the woman next door vanished beneath a window.
It would be much easier if he were simply grumpy.
“I’ll call again tomorrow,” I promise.
“First thing.”
“Yes, Chief.”
Something flashes in his eyes.
The reaction is so quick I almost miss it, but I do not imagine the sudden stillness in his body.
My stomach tightens.
Interesting.
Zain glances past me once more, and my pulse jumps when his gaze moves toward the covered easel. I shift slightly, blocking the view.
His eyes return to mine.
“What’s under there?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a canvas.”
“A very private canvas.”
His gaze holds mine.
I hold my breath.
Then he gives one small nod.
“Call the landlord.”
Relief rushes through me.
“I will.”
He steps back from the door.
“Lock up.”
“I always do.”
