Page 151 of Her Wicker Guardian

“What tax rate?”

“One potato.”

“That seems arbitrary.”

“Most taxes do.”

I consider protecting the rest of them, and Rachel catches me moving the tray farther away.

“Wow,” she says, pretending to be offended.

“You’re the one who established the system.”

Rachel folds her arms. “I’m reconsidering the relationship.”

I hold out one potato.

She takes two.

I should have expected that. The square is loud around us, but none of it matters. We’re sitting on the edge of a planter arguing over stolen potatoes like the festival has nothing stranger to offer.

Rachel’s shoulder rests against mine while we eat, and I no longer have to wonder whether anyone notices us together. I put my arm around her, and she leans into me without hesitation.

That is when I notice the man across the street. He stands very still beside a dark pickup, far enough away that the streetlight does not give me a clear view of his face.

He is not looking at the bear.

He is looking at Rachel.

The rhythm in my chest changes, and she feels it immediately.

“What?”

I don’t answer at first. The man turns away before I can decide whether I recognize him, opens the truck door, and gets inside. A moment later, he pulls away from the curb.

“Locke?”

I point toward the space he just left. “There was someone watching you.”

Rachel goes still beside me. The ease goes out of her body.

“What did he look like?”

“I couldn’t see him well. A man. Dark truck.”

“Trent drives a black truck.”

I look down the street again, but the truck is already gone. “Do you want to leave?”

Rachel stays quiet. Then she looks toward the bear, toward our friends, toward the lights and the people and the music filling the square.

“No.”

I wait, and her hand finds mine.

“I want another potato.”

I look at my tray. “You said the tax was one.”