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“Medical supplies.” She returns to her work. “That’s all.”

Medical supplies? Why does Nick need 1,600 units of…antiseptic? Bandages? I write it down and return to my notes about Nick’s family. When I pull my nose out of the folder, Roslyn’s at the window again, doing her meerkat impression. The wall clock chimes five, pulling her back to the present, and she returns to her work.

Crap, I’m late. That thing runs three minutes slow. I pack away my things, scribble down some questions to ask later, and stuff everything into my tote.

“Have a good evening, Mrs. Thorndale,” I say, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

She stands, blocking my exit. “Wait there. I’ll call Nick to walk you down.”

“It’s half a block.”

“He’s not answering.” She returns the phone to the cradle. “He left at dawn, and he isn’t back?” she says, almost to herself, and checks the clock. “Dustin.”

She’s dialing again as I thread my arms through my coat and slip past her.

A biting wind barrels down Main Street. From the newspaper office, I can see all the way to The Roost. There’s not another soul on the sidewalk. Not even a car goes by.

I glance behind me, wondering where everyone has gone.

When I turn back around, he’s there, standing between me and the hardware store in a space that was empty a second ago. Elegant and refined in a long charcoal coat. He’s pale and looks around my age, but there’s an air of something very old and very knowing about him. I’ve never seen him before, yet every nerve knows to be wary.

“Hi. Sorry, can I help you find—” The polite reflex kicks in.

“Miss Ashford.” He says it like he’s measuring me for a casket. An appraisal of my worth, the same look I get at my mother’s social events right before the person discovers I’m an Ashford and my value skyrockets. Eyes so dark, his irises are lost. “You’ve made quite a splash in our quaint town, haven’t you? For someone who’s only passing through.”

“I’m sorry. Do we…”

A pressure builds behind my eyes, filling my head like a balloon. It presses in from the outside, steady, and underneath it, layers stripping away until the uneasiness fades into pleasant relief.

Do as you’re told. Smile. Smooth it over. Give in.

For about ten seconds.

I dig my heels in, shove against this desire to please that I know is not my own.

The man’s composed face pinches. Surprise, then it’s gone. “Well.” It comes out almost admiring. “Aren’t you a stubborn little thing?”

He steps back. The pressure recedes an inch. Something brushes across my mind, light, unhurried. A fingertip skimming over the spines of books, searching for a particular one.

A shop door bangs open, and an older couple spills out of the hardware store. The woman freezes mid-step when she sees me, her hand flying to her husband’s sleeve. “Straight home, Gerald,” she says, low and urgent. They half-run to an old station wagon, and Gerald peels down the street like an F1 driver, studded tires digging into the packed ice.

When I turn back, the sidewalk is empty again.

Wind and snow. The world tilts for a second, a dizzy head rush like I’ve stood up too quickly.

Why did I stop?

The bell tinkles as I push open the door to the cafe, warm and bright. The radio hums in the background, and a batch of cookies wafts from the oven, chasing away some of the jitters still crawling under my skin. I hang my coat and scarf.

The clock above the grill says twenty-five past.

Huh.

There should be more of the evening regulars lining the counter by now, but there’s only Pete paying his bill and heading out.

“Where is everyone?” I ask Marthe, taking in the empty cafe.

“Getting colder. Staying in.” She says it without looking up, but her eyes cut to the window with one quick flick. “Stay inside, Ellery.”