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After that uplifting exchange they finished their breakfasts, dumped the dishes in the sink, and went out the back door to mash through the snow to Quinn’s Land Rover.

Despite the cold, birds sang cheerily from the treetops. The sun was shining, and the snow had started to melt, big lumps landing with a dullthudon the sodden ground.

They climbed into the SUV, which felt as cold as a refrigerator. Quinn switched on the heat, flicked on the CD player, turned the key in the ignition, and the Beatles blasted out with “Help!”

They exchanged looks. Andy gave a short laugh. Quinn turned down the volume of the CD player, and they were on their way.

Help! I need somebody.

Help! Not just anybody.

The muted music filled the silence in the SUV. Quinn seemed preoccupied as they wound through the bright, slushy streets, and Andy was actively worrying about how Marcus would react to being served with a restraining order.

It wasn’t like the restraining order would take immediate effect. Unless Andy was granted a temporary order of protection, there would have to be a hearing—which, hopefully, Marcus would not stick around for—and that could take a couple of weeks.

If Marcus didn’t show up, the judge might even postpone the hearing to a later date.

Then again, in a couple of weeks both Andy and Marcus might have returned to Philadelphia, so maybe it was moot. Could a restraining order granted in Maine be enforced in Pennsylvania? Andy had no clue.

Even if it could, in theory, be enforced, how likely was it Marcus’s former pals on Philly PD would bother to do so?

Regardless of the horror stories Marcus had shared, surely most of the time restraining orders worked? Otherwise, the courts would have come up with something better, right? Hopefully?

As if picking up a broadcast transmitted straight from Andy’s brain, Quinn said quietly, “Bok will not continue to be a threat to you. That, I can guarantee.”

Andy studied Quinn’s hard profile. Quinn clearly believed what he said. Andy believed… Well, he believed that Quinn believed what he said.

“Sure,” he said politely.

He felt the quick glance Quinn threw him, though Quinn said nothing.

By then they had reached Main Street, which, five days before Christmas, was busy with shoppers bundled against the cold, trudging from business to business, carriers and bags in hand.

Quinn drew up in front of Time in a Bottle. “Let me know when you leave the courthouse.”

Andy nodded, opened the door of the SUV. The smell of ocean, car exhaust, and baked goods from the café down the street filled the air. A gull swooped past, squawking an earlybah humbug!

Quinn leaned across, adding, “Please.”

For some reason that obvious afterthought of apleasetouched Andy. Quinn, like Marcus, was used to being obeyed without question. The difference was, Quinn understood that not everyone was actually under his command.

Andy smiled. “I’ll phone you.” He pushed the heavy door closed against the wind, touched two fingers to his temple in salute.

Quinn grinned and put the Land Rover in drive.

Mrs. Dubonnet, busily sweeping real snow from beneath windows painted with fake snow, put aside her broom and came to meet him. “Any update on Cutty? The hospital just keeps saying the same thing.”

Andy wished he could reassure her. “There’s no change so far. But that’s not necessarily bad news. I’m going over there this morning.”

She said sadly, “It’s a terrible thing to happen. Especially at Christmas.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll let me know if you find anything out?”

“Of course I will.” He patted her arm.

Mrs. Dubonnet returned to her sweeping, shaking her head at her glum thoughts, and Andy turned to unlock the front door of Time in a Bottle.