By the time nine o’clock rolls around, I’ve swept the floors and wiped down the counters, taking the trash bag with me to throw out at home because the back alley is dark and the lights are out, and I’ve never been a fan of walking down back alleys.

  I lock up after double-checking that the power has been turned off for the night, that the safe has been locked up and is ready for tomorrow’s deposits at our local bank branch. With one last final look through the shop windows as if to assure myself that no little elves are hanging around, waiting for me to leave so they can somehow miraculously come up with the solution to help me save the store like something out of The Elves and the Shoemaker.

  With a sigh, I turn around and start walking up the boulevard, feet crunching against the snow, trash bag in hand, blind to the bright shining moon overhead.

  I get home quickly, the cold still nipping at my heels as I get inside my building after tossing the trash in our dumpster, and take the stairs all the way up to the fifth floor, getting inside my blistering hot apartment that I’m already stripping before I can get my boots off.

  I sigh once fully inside, nose running to full blast, making me sniff every nanosecond before I can get a tissue. The world’s quiet here, in this place I’ve carved out for myself, and a little lonely, too. The couch is big enough for three people if you squeeze in just right, but it usually fits Izzy and me when we hang out on her off-days (i.e. not Fridays nights or the weekends which are guaranteed working days for her); my kitchen could be used more if I were home to use it, and all the chocolate chip muffins I’ve been eating instead of vegetables are starting to take their toll—walking up the stairs to my apartment never used to be this difficult before.

  A change has to be made, or else life’s going to pass me by—is already passing me by. Skydiving the once hasn’t really jumpstarted this new version of myself like I wanted it to. I need to get more serious with my goals, instead of just writing them down and hoping that they’ll be executed without any help from me.

  I move past the kitchen, forgetting about food for the night when I’m just going to go straight to sleep and I really should have a glass of water instead, and head toward the balcony.

  Once outside in the cold again, I marvel up at the sky, wondering yet again how I could survive a skydiving jump, and yet nothing’s changed.

  Nothing at all.

  I still have tomorrow’s problems, and trying to be a less-boring version of myself isn’t going to fix those problems, as much as I would like them to. Freaking New Year’s resolutions—who needs them anyway?

  It looks like I’m going to have to give myself a harder push outside of my comfort zone.

  I’ve had a semi-makeover with my hair and glasses, and I need to get to the gym, or start eating healthier or something to feel like I can tackle whatever the store has to throw at me until the spring when Mrs. Bristol decides to come back to the city.

  We’ve tried skydiving already…what’s next? Swimming with sharks?

  Doing spreadsheets with your eyes closed?

  What’s next?

  THREE

  The store, apparently, already has someone in it this morning, and that someone isn’t me.

  I look down at the set of keys I’m holding, ready to be used, frowning down at them, and then looking back at the store that has some random guy in there that shouldn’t be in there.

  It’s cold out here, and for a second, I think I’m the one in the wrong, that I made the mistake and walked up to the wrong store on the block. I double check the golden lettering on the glass panes that says Librairie on it, and still that stranger in the store continues to exist and doesn’t disappear like I’ve woken up from a bad dream.

  I’m the only one with the keys—well, other than Mrs. Bristol.

  And Mrs. Bristol is sailing along some sort of sea or ocean, having adventures while I’m stuck here in the bitter cold, watching a random stranger inside my shop.

  The intruder looks to be lost.

  I stand on the sidewalk and watch him standing there through the windows of the shop, looking around as if searching for something. The guy’s got his hands on his hips, looking like he has all the time in the world to rob us, to rob me. Well, he sure as hell doesn’t.

  I blink, hand coming up to point at him, mouth opening in surprise, while my brain runs through a bunch of scenarios where I’m the hero at the end of the day, and the intruder is like a felled beast underneath my boot once I get inside and beat his ass.

  Yeah, right, Evie. There’s fiction and then there’s reality.

  Instead, I hastily look up and down the street, as if someone’s going to come waltzing down and help me out, help me take this guy down, before my brain clicks to the fact that I should call the cops, report the intrusion.

  I glance back to the shop storefront and find the doors and windows perfectly intact, none of it looking (to my inexpert eye) like it was forced…so that means that the intruder has a key? Is that what that means? Or did he get in from the faulty back door?

  I am aware that I’m a sitting duck out here, in plain view of the shop while I’m stuck to the spot looking around and trying to make a decision.

  To call the cops or not?

  My heart hammers in my chest, and my hand squeezes around my set of keys, all slick and clammy and starting to freeze since I removed my mitt to have more dexterity. I have no more saliva left in my mouth, and my breath freezes the inside of my mouth.

  I should call the cops, right? I should call the cops!

  But I'm still stuck here looking at the intruder and wondering what he's going to do next.

  I don't like the look of him. He looks like he knows where he's going now after familiarizing himself with the layout, the way he goes up and down the aisles of books, fingers trailing across the spines. He shouldn't be doing that. This is my store; he shouldn’t be touching my stuff.

  I’m sure it’s like letting a stranger paw at your underwear; it feels wrong, incredibly wrong.

  Honestly, why isn’t he going for the cash register? It’s not like we have tons of cash, and the petty cash box has a couple of hundred bucks, that’s it.

  I don't know what to do.

  I know what I should do, but I don't know if I actually should it.

  Nothing looks like it’s been forced open from the front, and the stranger isn’t exactly hiding or trying to be stealthy. He’s tall and broad from this vantage point, and he’s doing nothing at all to hide it.

  If I thwack him with a brick-sized book to the temple, he’ll go down like a sack of potatoes just like everyone else, I’m sure of it. I just need to get inside to get my weapon of choice.

  Decided now, I take a hasty step forward, not wanting to overthink it, heart in my mouth, pulsing at the back of my throat so it feels like all I taste is iron.

  Mrs. Bristol gave me a responsibility over this place, and there’s no way in this frozen winter hell that Montreal is currently under that I’m going to allow this to happen in my most beloved place in the world.

  No freaking way; not on my watch.

  I climb up the two steps quickly, frowning down at the pavement that’s got a thin layer of ice already on it and adding it to my mental to-do list to add salt as part of my morning tasks. I reach out for the doorknob and gently, gently, start pulling the door open. It’s unlocked, like he’s inviting everyone on the block to come steal from me.

  Who the hell is this guy, and what does he want if it’s not to steal the non-existent cash from the register? Is this guy even a thief? A hitman?

  For me?

  I mash my lips together, ignoring that hot flare of panic beating in my chest, boiling like hot lava as I hastily step inside, totally forgetting about the bell over the door.

  I freeze and stop breathing.

  I don’t move, and in some poor and very weird part of my brain I think that if I don’t move, if I wallflower it like I’ve done my entire life, the intruder won’t be able to perceive me standing there, right in the middle of the store in front of the entrance.

  Jesus, Evie. You should have thought this through. He’s not a T. Rex!

  I’m holding the set of keys in a Wolverine display, and I’ve got my other hand around my phone, waiting to hit an emergency call when the intruder whirls around, coat flapping like he’s come out of a Western and this is the final showdown at high noon.

  I’m no Calamity Jane, but the intruder has the squint down right. I don’t think he can see me with the sunlight bouncing off the white, white snow that’s littered the streets, streaming through the windows behind me.

  Yes, an advantage. Tackle him, Evie. You gotta tackle him.

  I take a thumping step forward, caught between the impulse to do this guy harm for being in my shop, and stopping myself from doing something dumb that’s going to get me killed.

  The intruder takes a step forward, too, coming fully out of the shadows, his features illuminated from the brightness outside since none of the store lights have been turned on yet.

  Oh. I know that face. I know that face!

  In a plot twist of the year (because everything in my life has been so very predicable so far), I recognize this guy, and I stand up straighter, taller, less ready to take him down with a flying leap.

  It's him. It's my skydiving instructor.

  How in hell does he have a key to the store? How can he possibly have a key to the store?

  None of this is computing in my mind—the equation of my skydiving instructor showing up at my place of work (with a key of all things), and now we’re staring at each other as if we’re both a little lost.

  I shove my scarf down away from the bottom half of my face, frowning at the way my breath has fogged up my glasses with the temperature change from coming in from the cold outside.

  I point to him with my Wolverine hand. “I don't know what you think you're doing here, asshole,” I spit out, “but I'll beat you to a bloody pulp if you don't get the hell outta here.”

  The intruder has the audacity to hold his hands up in the classic position of surrender, and I’m wracking my brains to remember his name. What was his name?

  I jumped out of an airplane just a couple of weeks ago, and hell if I remember the instructor’s name. Besides, my brain is just a data bank of all the books I’ve read and the hero names, ranking them all from greatest to worst. I don’t know where this guy fits on the meter.

  Does it matter, Evie, at right this very second?

  Probably not.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again through clenched teeth, bringing my phone up to my ear, ready to hit the phone button to connect the call once and for all. “Why are you in here?”

  He opens one hand to show off a set of keys that look suspiciously like mine, the keychain in the shape of Brazil throwing me for a second because those look a hell of a lot like Mrs. Bristol’s personal set of keys.

  I open and close my mouth, trying to form words, trying to connect the dots, but everything is moving too fast, and apparently not fast enough.

  I point to those keys, jabbing the air. “How did you get those?”

  “Hi,” he says, waving at me, hands still held up in mid-air even though I know I’m not even vaguely threatening. I have a violent bone in my body, but it’s very hard to access unless it’s a matter of survival, of life and death, and apparently, my hindbrain has decided that this is not one of those times. “I’m Noah, remember?”

  I nod dumbly, still blinking at him. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Why are you here?” I point down with the hand that’s got my phone in it, nearly dropping the thing because my hands are so clammy and slick.

  Now is not the time to lose your grip on your phone and lose all the advantage you have.

  Sure, I’ve read books on wars, on army strategies—hell, I’ve read buckets’ and buckets’ worth of noblebright and grimdark fantasies that featured bloodshed, and I’ve learned lessons about how to vanquish your foes. You think it would have prepared me to face my very own enemy?

  Sure, in theory.

  Not in reality.

  I’m doomed!

  I’m extremely aware that we’re alone in this space, that the door’s closed behind me, that no one can hear me if I need to call for help. I am very aware; it just doesn’t stop me from demanding answers.

  I’m one of those walk-on and walk-off characters in the books that serves the purpose of comedic relief or to highlight the heroism of the protagonist, honestly. I’m never the main character. Apparently, I’ve taken this moment to shine.

  “Seriously, man, what the hell are you doing here? And how did you get those keys?”

  As far as I know those keys were left behind in Mrs. Bristol’s apartment while she travels the world and is basically living her best life. How did they get in this guy’s hands? What does a skydiving instructor know about this place and my boss?

  “My aunt owns the place,” Noah says, and I’m wondering if this is what a stroke feels like. All before my first cup of coffee, too.

  “Your aunt?” It takes me a second, but there’s just been so many new developments this morning that I don’t immediately connect the dots, my brain churning out more ridiculous answers instead of the most obvious one. “Mrs. Bristol is your aunt?”

  Noah smiles, then nods at me, proud like I’ve won a gold medal at the Olympics. “Exactly.”

  I shake my head again, rubbing at my forehead, nearly braining myself with my phone. That would’ve been funny if this was a humorous storyline, but shit, now is not the time to let my guard down.

  “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re here. You got the keys from Mrs. Bristol’s place, I assume?” I narrow my eyes at him, an idea churning in my mind. “Or maybe you’re just telling me that so I won’t have to kill you. Did you break into her place, too?”

  Noah, the skydiving instructor, who could potentially be Mrs. Bristol’s nephew, throws back his head and laughs at the ceiling, a big bray of a laugh that seems to fill up the entire space, making me stiffen and tense up, like I’m getting ready to run away from the sound alone.

  “You can give her a call,” he says, still chuckling, running a hand over his mouth like it can up and disappear the smile he’s wearing, but his eyes are alight with amusement at my expense.

  And I want to punch him, so there’s that.

  I shake my head, clenching my jaw. “Do you know where your aunt is right now?”

  Noah shrugs. “Last time I checked she was somewhere in the Mediterranean, but I don’t know which island she’s on right now.”

  Okay, that seems like a good answer, but still, wouldn’t Mrs. Bristol have told me about her nephew coming here, of all people?

  Sure, I’ve heard about her family, but they always sounded like they didn’t live in the province, or lived overseas, like they were the kind of people that weren’t a part of her daily life like I was.

  And now this?

  “Look, I don’t know you,” I say, stating the obvious, my heart tripping up in my chest, stumbling over its rhythm. “And I would like it if you left those keys behind and leave.”

  I squash down the need to be polite and hold my breath while Noah deliberates over my offer.

  “All right, I can go,” he says, amiable even, and that throws me, too.

  Isn’t he supposed to be angry, get mad at the accusations I’ve been throwing at him? Who is this guy?

  “I have to be back tomorrow, though,” he says, and my heart rockets up to the back of my throat and stays there as I watch him go slowly to the front counter and place the set of keys on the surface.

  “What? Why?”

  Noah shakes his head, moving slowly again until we’re standing five feet apart, shrugging.

  “It’s better if you talk to my aunt about that. I won’t be able to give you the explanation you need, Evalyn.”

  I make a pained noise—I forgot that he knows my name, too, that he knows who I am.

  And while I will have possession of all the keys now to the store, this stranger knows my name when he was supposed to be nothing more than a fleeting acquaintance.

  Adrenaline shimmers in my veins, making me shake all over, as I hastily step aside and watch Noah walk calmly and slowly to the front door. He looks back only the once over his shoulder and throws me something that I would call a friendly smile.

  With a wave, he leaves the shop behind and starts walking down the street, and finally out of my line of sight.

  Safe at last.

  It’s a hard fight to keep myself upright. It’s even harder to keep my knees from turning to water and forgo the need to become one with the floor and live the rest of my life trying to commune with the floorboards.

  I force myself to move, to go to the freezing cold back office and turn on the ancient space heater that’s loud enough to raise all the ghosts lingering in the walls of this archaic building.

  I let myself run through the motions, setting up my laptop, getting all the windows on my screen open for easy access, starting the coffee machine that needs to be washed out, all while my brain and body shake a little at the implications of Noah’s sudden arrival.

  What can it mean?

  Mrs. Bristol is supposed to call me this afternoon, but none of that is particularly reliable when she’s sailing and will have to island hop and get somewhere where there’s a pretty good connection to be able to have a video call with me, because she likes to see my face, instead of calling me like a normal person.

  But who knows if she’ll actually call today? She could call tomorrow instead, and this mystery of having Noah show up out of the blue is going to drive me crazy until then.

  Like always, I throw myself into my work, heading to the front of the store with my laptop and charger in tow, hooking everything up and typing out my to-do list for the day, even the boring mundane tasks like dusting and cleaning the bathroom in the back.

  I go over the shelves and the lack of books on some, the way certain things have shifted as if Noah was in here longer than I expected, moving things around that has me cursing him out under my breath.