need to call the police, and I needed to be somewhere safe.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you need to use the phone?”
Claire shook her head. “I’ve got mine. But thanks.” She could see the questions in her friend’s eyes, but she was unable to find words to explain anything and didn’t want to have to tell the story twice. So instead of explaining, Claire listened to the phone ring until the operator picked up.
“This is Claire Phillips. I’m at Marsh Maze Books right now, but I was just attacked on my way to the square.”
The operator’s reassuring voice asked for more information, and Claire told her what she could, then hung up the phone.
Bree was still staring at her.
“I don’t want to talk about it yet,” she told her friend as she kept her eyes focused on the door, trying to figure out anything she could do to help her stay calm until officers arrived at the scene.
“O-okay,” Bree stammered. “But...can I get you anything? Some water, maybe? Or do you want to sit down?”
“No water, thanks,” Claire managed to say, though she did take the offer to have a seat on one of the overstuffed easy chairs scattered throughout the store. The adrenaline rush from earlier was fading, leaving her feeling more than a little unsteady on her feet.
Funny, maybe it was just the aftermath of the attack, some rush of numbness that had hit her, but when the Man in Black—as she’d started thinking of him—had rescued her, she’d felt oddly calm with him. Like his very presence affected her somehow. That was strange since, though Claire thought she’d seen him in her shop often in the past week or so, he was a stranger to her.
Why had he told her to call the police and then run? Her mind could take that question in so many different directions. Had he known the person who attacked her? Was he working with him somehow? But that didn’t make sense. Then again, nothing did so far. Why would anyone want to hurt her? She ran a coffee shop in Treasure Point. As far as she knew, she didn’t have any enemies at all. Yes, there had been some scary moments for Gemma earlier in the year, but everything had been worked out. Life should have been safe again.
It unsettled her, somewhere very close to her core, to know that apparently, life wasn’t safe for her. Not right now.
Claire hugged her arms tight around herself and hunched deeper into the chair. To her credit, Bree didn’t push for an explanation anymore, just stood there silently, not sure what to do. And Claire didn’t blame for her for that—she didn’t know what to do, either.
From far away across the square, Claire could see the tree lighting up slowly, from the bottom to the very top. It was a Treasure Point tradition, one she’d participated in every year—even the ones when she’d been on holiday break from college—with her parents and sister. This year her parents were on an extended vacation in New England, visiting some of her mom’s relatives for the holidays, but Gemma was at the ceremony and Claire had planned to meet her.
Gemma. How could she not have texted her sister by now? Claire pulled her phone out.
I can’t make it.
She could think of nothing else to say, so she just sent it.
Gemma’s reply appeared seconds later.
What’s up? Are you okay?
Claire messaged back,
Long story. Call me on your way home?
Okay.
A squad car pulled up just as she read Gemma’s last text. Claire slid the phone into her pocket.
“Are you okay, Claire?”
Her brother-in-law was the first one in the door, followed by his friend Clay, another officer. Claire got to her feet. “Matt! I thought you were with Gemma?”
He shook his head. “I got called in at the last minute. Someone else had to go home sick. Tell us what happened.”
“Right here? Or at the police station, or—?”
“Start with telling us where the attack happened.”
“It was outside, down the street a little more toward my shop. I was walking toward the square when a man grabbed me, pulled me off the street.”
“Did you see his face?” Clay asked.
Claire shook her head. “He held me from behind. I couldn’t see him at all. But he was tall. Strong.”
“Did you hear his voice?” Matt prompted. “Did he say anything?”
“He didn’t, no. But then another man came up and said to let me go. He started fighting the man holding me, got him to release me and then run off.”
“How did you end up in here?”
“The guy who helped me told me to come in here and call the police.”
The two officers glanced at each other. Claire wished she could read the look that passed between them.
“Let’s go on down to the station,” Matt said. “Hitchcock, you go check out the street, make sure you don’t see any evidence, though I doubt the attacker left any.”
Clay nodded and headed out the door.
“Come on. The chief is going to want to hear this firsthand.” Claire said goodbye to Bree, thanked her for her help, and then followed Matt through the doorway, grateful that if she had to go to the police station, at least she was close to the officer who was taking her in. She tried so hard always to seem put together, in control. Right now, she felt like she was falling apart. The officers of the Treasure Point police station were good people, most of whom she’d known for years, but there weren’t many whom she’d want to see her like this.
Matt opened the passenger door for her, and she climbed in. She couldn’t help but look around once she was sitting safely in the car, looking for any sign either of the man who’d attacked her or of the man who’d likely saved her life.
* * *
Nate’s search of the docks had turned up nothing. Jesse Carson had gotten away.
Claire had shown no signs of recognizing her attacker, but Nate did. He was heading an investigation for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation that had been tracking the Carson brothers for the last eighteen months, trying to find out where they got their supply of the designer drug known as Wicked. After the close call he’d had the last time he’d started to get close, Nate couldn’t afford any more slipups. Had Carson recognized him?
Nate didn’t think so. He’d been working deep undercover inside a sign manufacturing company the last time either Carson brother had seen him. After his cover had been blown there, Nate had needed to move and had acquired a new cover.
He’d shaved the beard he’d had at the sign company, and traded his industrial uniform shirts and work pants for his usual attire—jeans and a wardrobe that consisted mostly of black. He was here in Treasure Point, a location he’d chosen for several strategic reasons, pretending
