I finished my coffee. I stood and put my toes in the ocean, as did Sundance, my faithful, furry friend. I listed ten things that I loved, including my family, the ocean, the islands, my animals, and Marco. I pulled myself together and went to work, because this is what we do when life falls apart: We buck up and we go to work and we take care of people and our responsibilities.

Why? Because we must.

And maybe that answer is, boringly, dully . . . perfect.

* * *

The new chief, Reginald Ass Burn, came to my bookstore on Monday, his stomach tightly pulled in by his bulletproof vest. His eyes were narrow and squinty like pinto beans, his face puffy like a smashed marshmallow.

“Hello. I am Chief Reginald Ashburn the third, and I understand that you are Evie Lindsay.”

“Hello,” I said. I put out my hand, and he shook it. He squeezed my hand too tight, held it too long, stared at me too intently. His eyes dropped up and down my body quickly, but enough so that he knew I would see it. He wanted to make me feel checked out. Evaluated. Inwardly I said a bad word that started with an F, slowly.

I hadn’t wanted to prejudge him simply because other islanders said he was arrogant, sarcastic, sour, unsmiling, and petty with his raft of tickets. But here he was, and it looked like people were right.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I disentangled my hand from his sweaty clutch. “Can I help you find a book to read?”

“As you can see, I’m on duty, so I can’t look now, young lady.” He puffed out his chest.

It was the tone. Condescension. Superiority. He was correcting me by saying As you can see, I’m on duty, I have things to do, busy me, and yet. There he was. In my bookstore.

“Oh. Well, I won’t disturb you when you’re on duty and searching for criminals in my bookstore. Have a nice day.” I turned away, but not before I saw a slightly surprised expression cross his face, followed by irritation at my sarcasm.

He stayed, standing in the middle of my yellow bookstore with a scowl on his face, in the midst of my white shelves, my nonfiction and fiction and biographies and mysteries, my beloved books. He walked to the café and examined it, unsmiling, as if he were expecting to find a criminal between the purple tables, then he walked out to the deck and checked out everyone there, too. Apparently there were no criminals or potential crimes taking place among the townspeople and tourists, the families and couples, and the grandparents, who you really have to keep an eye on. The whales and seagulls were behaving, so he had nothing further to do.

He headed back in and stopped at the cash register where I was working.

“You are the owner of this place?”