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“No, it’s not your job to take a bullet for the mayor. Your job is to protect the people of the town. I need you to stay focused on that, okay?”

“Emma, dear,” Beverly, my receptionist, says. She was also my mother’s receptionist when she was mayor. She’s never called me Madam Mayor or Mayor Crane, likely because Mom used to change my diapers in this very office and Beverly’s seen my bare ass. She’s a werewolf in her mid-eighties, so I let it slide, among other things. “They’re ready for you in conference room A.”

“Thanks, Beverly.” This is around the time I’d give Ezra a look that says, This town, am I right? and they’d send me one right back like, You’re the one who wanted to be mayor, dummy. Fuck, I miss them.

Thinking of them has me reaching for the top left drawer of my desk, and, finding it empty, I let out a pained squeak. “Seriously?”

Abe has his clenched fist aimed at the inside of the drawer, ready to swing. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I slam it closed and take a steadying breath.

Grief is weird. You’d think talking about the portal bomber running around Mapletown would cause my throat to tighten and the walls feel like they’re closing in. That verbalizing my grim reality while being mildly tortured by a rule-following robot would make me want to scream until my voice gives out. But it’s not. It’s this.

It’s the jarring realization that this silly, insignificant habit of mine was supported and lovingly encouraged by someone who’s not here. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. I’m just…Ezra would keep this drawer filled with snack-sized bags of pickle popcorn,” I mutter, jabbing my sharp manicured nail into my thigh to direct my pain there instead of the cracking sensation deep within my chest cavity. “It’s my stress snack.”

Abe’s gaze shifts between the drawer and my face, back and forth, for several beats before he straightens and says, “Where can we find this pickle popcorn?”

I push a few pieces of paper off my tablet and clutch it to my chest. “At the market. It’s fine. I have a meeting to get to anyway.”

The morning speeds into the afternoon without much more than a quick bathroom break—for which Abe agrees to wait outside in the hallway after first checking to ensure all the other stalls were empty before I entered. In the last meeting of the day, Otto can’t seem to stop staring at Abe, and when I turn around, I find Abe staring at Otto.

“Is he recording us?” Otto asks through the side of his mouth, as if Abe wouldn’t be able to see that.

“Of course not. Wait,” I stop, looking up at Abe. “You’re not, right?”

“No. My system is not designed to record audio or video at will.”

I nod. “Good.”

“As long as Emma’s pulse and respiration rate remain within normal range, nothing will be recorded in my presence.”

I jerk back. “What? You can read my pulse?”

“I am attuned to your body’s responses to external stimuli, yes. It’s merely a safety precaution.”

Otto slams his hand on the conference table. “Can you read my pulse too?”

“No, but I need no access to that information to know your blood pressure is rising, Sheriff.”

Otto looks equal parts impressed and affronted. As he goes to open his mouth, I hand my phone to Abe. “Here. Why don’t you listen to an audiobook or something?” I hand him my earbuds. “You’ll still be able to monitor me and my vital signs,” I add with a huff, “but this way, no one in meetings with me will be uncomfortable. Or they won’t be as uncomfortable.”

I get to my feet to show Abe how to pull up my Libro FM app and scroll through the many books in my library. “It’s mostly romance. Hope that’s your thing. Enjoy.”

I can tell once he’s hit play because his golden gaze lands in the middle of the conference room table as he listens.

Thatta boy.

After I clean up my inbox and approve the pending permits from my time off, I ask Beverly to help me with a social media post.

I’m standing in front of my desk, holding the sign I made. “When I say action, you press the red button and keep the camera on me until I say cut, okay?”

“Okay, action,” she says, holding my phone. I know she didn’t press the button. I’m not even certain the camera is pointed at me.

“No, no. I’ll say the word action, and then you press the red button.”

“Okay.” She looks at me expectantly.

I straighten my posture, fix my hair, and smile big. “Action. Hey, Mapletownies, Mayor Crane here––”