In my pocket, the phone suddenly vibrated again, a long, sustained buzz that echoed in the small space.

Harris did not move for three seconds.

His eyes darted from my face down to my pocket, where the blue light of the screen was bleeding through the thin fabric of my apron.

“What is that?” Harris asked.

His voice was barely a whisper.

I did not answer him.

My fingers tightened around the glass jar of preserved lemons.

The weight of the jar was comforting, its cold surface slick with condensation.

“Julian,” Harris called out, his eyes still locked on my pocket. “She’s in here.”

I heard Julian’s sharp intake of breath from the kitchen.

Quick, heavy footsteps clicked on the hardwood floor toward the pantry.

“Did she have the gun?” Julian asked.

“I don’t see it,” Harris said.

He stepped fully into the pantry, his shoulder brushing against a shelf of canned tomatoes.

The small space felt instantly crowded.

He smelled of cheap cologne and rain.

“Get out of the way,” Julian said, pushing his shoulder past Harris’s frame.

Julian’s face was pale.