"It's fine," I reply automatically.
Rosa's eyebrow arches. "Sure it is. That's why you're walking like my grandmother after she broke her hip."
Her daughter Lucia smothers a laugh behind her hand, then goes serious again. "Was that really a sniper? Like in the movies?"
"Lucia," Rosa warns, but the girl's question hangs between us.
I meet her eyes—young, curious, but not naive. "Not like in the movies. Those make it look cool. There's nothing cool about someone trying to hurt people."
Rosa studies my face. "You know who did this." Not a question.
"I have a good idea."
She nods once, decision made. "The self-defense class meets at four. Behind the community center. You should come." Her eyes flick toward the Forge men standing guard. "All of you. People need to see you're not the threat."
Before I can respond, she touches her daughter's shoulder. "Come on, Lucia. We need to get home."
As they walk away, I hear Lucia ask, "Mom, are we still going to the lake this weekend?"
"We'll see,mija. We'll see."
The normalcy of the question hits me like a punch. This is what Granger is really threatening—not just lives, but the small, ordinary moments that make them worth living.
As I limp back to the bookstore, Dana is wrapping the box in police tape—not because it'll matter, but because it's protocol. Because sometimes, even empty gestures provide comfort.
Sheriff Lane Hale stands nearby, talking low into his radio, eyes shifting between the Forge crew and the town square. His posture is relaxed, but there's tension in his shoulders, in the way his hand never strays far from his weapon.
"He's calculating something," I mutter to Logan. "Trying to decide if he still trusts you."
"I don't need his trust," Logan says.
"You might. If this escalates."
And it will escalate. We both know it. Granger's not the type to take half measures. The shot was just the opening move in a much longer game.
Dana catches my eye from inside the bookshop. She motions me over. Quiet. Alone.
I glance at Logan, who nods almost imperceptibly. "Go. I'll keep watch."
Inside, the bookshop smells like old paper and peppermint oil. Cozy. Disarming. Shelves filled with worn spines stretch toward a high ceiling, creating narrow aisles that feel like sanctuary rather than confinement. Under different circumstances, I could lose myself here for hours.
But the look on Dana's face isn't cozy at all.
"That package?" she says softly, leading me toward the back of the store. "It wasn't meant for me."
I nod, limping slightly as I follow her. "It was meant for everyone watching."
"I know," Dana replies, stopping near a locked cabinet behind the counter. "But it still landed at my door. That means he knows the history. Knows I've seen these patterns before."
"You said you walked away from this kind of work."
"I did. But that doesn't mean it walked away from me."
There's a weight to her words that makes my spine straighten. Dana steps to the back of the counter and pulls out a worn key, unlocking the cabinet to reveal a battered, fireproof case.
She clicks it open without ceremony.
Inside: clippings, old military files, torn pages, two dog tags nestled among yellowed papers like artifacts from another time.
