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K eeping her gaze on the picture, she tuned her senses into the group of people behind her. The shuffling of feet, the pause at the entrance, the scent of several colognes filling the large gallery, the rustle of clothing as men slid their hands into their pockets.

Watching them in the reflection of the glass covering the photo, she counted seven people: five men and two women. One man dressed in police blues stood next to another in a charcoal-gray suit. The man in the blues had to be the first man she’d heard—who else would comment on turning a blind eye to a drug deal? And judging by the way the man in the suit watched her, he was a good guess for the second.

In the fractured reflection, she took in what details she could—the minutiae distracting her from thinking too hard about what she had to do next. Blue , as she dubbed the officer, was shorter than Suit by about two inches. Suit had light hair—she couldn’t tell the exact shade—and a few pounds around his belly. Blue had thin, dark hair and held himself with a military rigidity.

Her gaze lingered on Blue as she counted to ten. When she reached zero, she turned and gave the performance of her life.

Yelping in “surprise,” she clasped her phone to her chest and stumbled back, shifting so as not to knock into the artwork. “Oh, sorry,” she said, her voice three decibels louder than normal. When two members of the group cringed, she faked a wince.

“Sorry,” she said, much quieter as she pulled her earbuds out. “I always forget to turn the noise-canceling feature off in public. I hope I didn’t startle you with my”—she shot them an apologetic look as she slid the AirPods into their case—“well, with my being startled. I didn’t hear you come in.”

One of the men, not one of the two she’d had her eye on, muttered a rude “obviously,” but most of the others just smiled.

“Listening to something good?” one of the women asked.

Juliana inclined her head, hoping no one noticed her shaking hands. “Lisa Roberts’s Giana series. She’s close to unmasking the killer. Well, maybe.”

The woman smiled. “It’s a great series.”

“But perhaps not one to listen to while wandering around a gallery on my own.” She flashed them a rueful grin. Nervous heat crawled up her neck, burning her ears, and she forced her feet forward toward the hallway in an effort to hide it. “There are wonderful exhibits in those rooms,” she said, gesturing to the connecting galleries as she tried to keep her breathing under control. “I started in the back and have been making my way forward. That one”—she nodded toward the large print—“caught my eye. Well, that and a good chapter,” she added with a self-deprecating eye roll. “Anyway, enjoy your visit,” she said, scooting past the group. One man looked as though he wanted to stop her and introduce himself—not Suit or Blue—but she pretended not to notice and continued on.

Every nerve in her body and synapses in her brain urged her to run. Thankfully, the survival instincts she hadn’t had to rely on in years roared to life and drowned them out. At a sedate, casual pace, she exited the gallery and proceeded down the hall. Ten steps took her to the entrances of two more galleries, one to her left and one to her right. On a whim, she turned right, glancing over her shoulder as she entered the room.

Suit and Blue watched her. She flashed them a smile—one she hoped communicated excitement about the exhibit, then stepped inside.

Walking straight to the opposite wall, she leaned against it, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. The cool plaster at her back sent a chill across her skin, though it eased some of the nausea curling in her stomach.

After a few seconds of inhaling to the count of four and exhaling to the count of four, she opened her eyes. She had no idea if she’d fooled Blue and Suit, but her stint “on stage” wasn’t over—she had to keep acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Anything else might raise their suspicions.

Pushing off the wall, she approached one of the exhibits, a newspaper enclosed in a glass case. An edition published April 19, 1906, with the headline “Earthquake and Fire: San Francisco in Ruins.”

Leaning over, she began reading. Despite the circumstances, or perhaps because of them, she lost herself in the story printed so long ago. San Francisco hadn’t been completely in ruins after the infamous earthquake, but based on the uncharacteristically dramatic writing, she had no doubt it had felt that way.

Footsteps and murmured voices echoed softly down the hall as she studied a series of before-and-after pictures. She kept her eyes on the images until she saw the group in the reflection passing by the gallery entrance. Then as casually as possible, as naturally as possible, she glanced at them over her shoulder.

The woman who’d asked about her book gave her a quick smile, which Juliana managed to return. One of the men turned his head, but didn’t bother to acknowledge her. Suit’s gaze locked on her as he passed, icy and suspicious. She fought not to shiver.

With a curt nod, she turned back to the exhibit. Her best chance of not drawing any attention—of not giving Suit and Blue any reason to think twice about her—was to be herself. A lover of random information, a history geek, and the kind of woman who’d wander off from a party to listen to her book.

She spent another ten minutes in the earthquake gallery before making her way to the final one—a look into the possible future of San Francisco. To her, the least interesting of the exhibits—she’d prefer to be a part of the wonder of the future as it unfolded than spend her time imagining it. Still, she dutifully visited every display in the gallery as she began to weigh her next steps. Time had given her body a chance to recover, and while her heart no longer raced and her hands no longer shook, the gravity of the situation remained unchanged.

She had two options when she walked out of the final gallery: stay at the reception until Suit and Blue left or leave.

If she stayed until after they left, she’d feel more confident that her ruse had fooled them and that they hadn’t pegged her as someone to worry about. On the other hand, if she left, it gave the appearance that she hadn’t a care in the world, possibly assuring them that she wasn’t a concern.

The former would give her a sense of closure. But the latter inched ahead by a nose.

She’d managed to wrangle her panic into submission, but it still hovered at the edges, clawing to break free. In the confines of her car, she could let it loose. She could have a breakdown and an adrenaline crash in private. She could question her life choices that led to her hearing two men plotting murder. She could consider whether to just keep driving east, away from Suit and Blue and everything she knew. And then, when she recovered from that, she could refocus and dissect the conversation in a million different ways and figure out what the hell to do about it. The first thing on the agenda when she got home—identify Suit and Blue.

Or was it?

She bit back a groan. She had a date scheduled for tonight. A date she desperately didn’t want to reschedule. A second time.

Even considering prioritizing her dinner seemed insane. But thinking about Simon McLean, aka Stone, tugged the first smile from her in what felt like ages.

A member of the local motorcycle club, Falcon’s Rest, Simon had (politely) stormed into her library three months ago asking for access to newspapers, flyers, and other gossip sheets from the mid-1800s. The request—and his presence—thrilled her. A far cry from the usual gaggle of kids or tourists who frequented the presidential library.

Before he left, he’d asked for her number, and—very unlike her—she’d given it to him. Maybe it was his smile, or the way he slid on a pair of readers as he pored over the digital documents she brought him, or the slight scruff on his cheeks, or the way he filled out his jeans and leather jacket. Whatever it was, she’d thrown caution and self-doubt to the wind and handed over the digits.

A few weeks passed before he called her—a lapse she forgave when she learned why he’d been in her library in the first place. In the weeks that followed his visit, he and a few of his friends had solved a centuries-old crime, found a hidden cache of gold, and helped catch a very modern-day killer. He’d been busy.

Since then, they’d had coffee twice, but tonight they had a dinner date. She’d already rescheduled once when a family situation had taken her away from Mystery Lake for a few weeks. She didn’t want to do it again. Then again, she wasn’t exactly in the right headspace to be enjoying time with the charming and hot-as-hell biker.

She drummed her fingers against her thigh, debating something that really shouldn’t be a debate. She’d just heard two people plotting a murder; she needed to figure out their identities and what to do with the information, not be thinking about her date. But she’d been on the receiving end of her fair share of serial cancellations and didn’t want Simon to think she’d lost interest. Nothing could be further from the truth.

She sighed and decided to focus on one thing at a time. She’d return to the reception, see if Suit and Blue were still enjoying the open bar, then make her decision. Maybe they’d already be gone and at least one choice would be made for her.

After a side trip to the restroom and a conversation with a colleague, she entered the cramped reception area. Waiters bustled about clearing tables, a caterer hovered over the dessert station, and the bartender, not surprisingly, still had a line.

Scanning the room, she spotted her mentor—Dr. Hammel had been her adviser during graduate school, and she also sat on the Historical Society board. The woman was deep in conversation with two men, giving Juliana an excuse not to approach her. Continuing her search, she noted that several of her librarian colleagues had already left. The attendees who remained appeared to be city officials, employees of the Historical Society, and (she’d guess) donors.

Who she didn’t see was either Blue or Suit. Hope flickered in her chest, and a tiny bit of tension left her body as she swept her gaze around the room again, this time with more intention. When she didn’t see either man on her second pass, she let out a long, quiet exhale.

They’d left.

She’d fooled them.

And their absence meant she didn’t have to make the choice whether to stay or go. One decision down, one to go. Now all she had to think about was her date.

She kept a wary eye out as she pushed through the heavy doors of the society’s headquarters and descended the wide stone steps to the street. After handing the valet her ticket, she turned her attention to the streets of San Francisco as she waited. Three homeless men sat along a wall opposite her, spaced about forty feet apart. A young woman with an impressive set of over-ear earphones passed by. Two men in suits, deep in conversation, walked toward city hall.

By the time the valet returned, she was reminded of why she called Mystery Lake home. She loved her job, of course, but she also loved the quiet of her little mountain town. And—bonus—she’d never overheard people plotting murder in public.

Eager to hit the road, she handed the valet a generous tip, then slid behind the wheel. Checking her rearview mirror, she paused as a man emerged from the building she’d only recently left. Phone to his ear, his gaze locked on her car. Or it appeared to—at thirty feet away, she couldn’t really tell, but it felt that way.

She studied the unfamiliar figure as she toed off her heels. Driving barefoot wasn’t legal, but then again, her heels shouldn’t be, either.

The man shifted his attention from her car to something inside the building. A pang of annoyance shot through her. She needed to get her head on straight and stop jumping at shadows. If not, she’d drive herself crazy and not figure out what, if anything, to do about what she’d overheard.

With a shake of her head, she put the car in Drive and pulled away from the curb. Unable to stop herself, she gave the man one last look. And almost wished she hadn’t.

Standing next to him, in the shadows of the ornate stone of the Historical Society, was none other than Suit.