“This isn’t over,” Goodwin said as Ghost stepped out of the cell. “One more incident—one more hint of violence—and I’ll make sure you never see daylight again.”
forty
Ava’s cabinembraced Naomi like a warm blanket, but she couldn’t stop shivering. The wooden walls with their faded photos and handwoven tapestries had always felt like sanctuary, like home, but tonight they felt like they were closing in. She sank onto the worn couch, her bones suddenly too heavy for her body, and watched her grandmother move through the familiar space with practiced efficiency—lighting sage, filling the kettle, muttering prayers in Salish that sounded like water over stones. The scent of burning herbs filled the small living room, but even that couldn’t clear the memory of Ghost’s face as they’d led him away in handcuffs.
All because of what she’d said.
All because she couldn’t keep her damn mouth shut.
“Drink this.” Ava pressed a steaming mug into her hands. The ceramic burned against Naomi’s palms, but she welcomed the pain—something tangible to focus on besides the hollow ache in her chest.
“Thanks,” she murmured, but didn’t drink. Steam rose between them like a veil. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, carrying the last whispering echoes of the fall festival that had imploded so spectacularly hours before.
Ava settled across from her in the ancient rocking chair that had belonged to Naomi’s great-grandmother. The chair creaked as she rocked, a familiar rhythm that had soothed Naomi through childhood nightmares and teenage heartbreaks. But this wasn’t a skinned knee or a boy who didn’t call. This was a man in jail because of her words, her recognition.
“He’s not the first man to punch someone at a festival,” Ava said, her weathered hands wrapped around her own mug. “Won’t be the last.”
“This is different.” Naomi finally took a sip of tea, bitter herbs and honey coating her tongue. “Owen’s past makes it different. And Deveraux is a cop. Sheriff Goodwin was practically glowing when they took him away.” She set the mug down with a too-sharp clink. “I should never have said anything. Not there, not like that.”
“So you would have what? Kept quiet? Let that man walk free after what he did to you?”
“He walking free now,” she pointed out and rubbed at the chill crawling up her arms. “I could have told Brandt privately. We could have handled it through proper channels.”
Ava made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. “Proper channels. Like the proper channels that dismissed Mary Rose or Greta’s sister as runaways? The proper channels that let Leelee disappear like she never existed?” The rocking chair creaked faster, the only outward sign of her frustration. “Your Ghost-man did what men have done since time began. He protected what was his.”
“I’m not his,” Naomi said automatically, but her hand went to the fox pendant at her throat. The silver was warm against her skin, a constant reminder of his promise.
“Hmm.” Ava’s knowing gaze flicked to the pendant, then back to Naomi’s face. “Tell yourself whatever you need to, Little Rabbit.”
The childhood nickname landed like a blow. Little Rabbit. The scared girl who ran instead of fighting. The girl who needed protecting.
“Please don’t call me that anymore,” she said, the words scraping her throat. “I’m not scared. I’m angry. They took Mary Rose, they took Leelee, they took so many girls—and no one did anything. No one believed me.”
“I believed you,” Ava reminded her quietly. “I have always believed you.”
Tears pricked at the corners of Naomi’s eyes. “And now Ghost is in jail, Sampson Padilla is dead, and the sheriff is spinning some bullshit story about how it was all Sampson’s fault—case closed.”
She stood abruptly, tea forgotten, and paced the small living room. Three steps one way, three steps back. A prison of her own making.
“You spoke truth,” Ava said. She set her mug aside. “How men respond to truth is on them, not you.”
“But I knew how he’d react. I knew he’d—” She stopped herself, the memory of Owen’s face flashing before her—that cold, deadly focus that had transformed him from the man who kissed her so gently into something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something broken. “I’ve seen what he can do.”
“We all have our demons,” Ava said softly, and her lined face softened. “Your grandfather had some dark ones, too.”
Naomi blinked. Ava never spoke about her late husband, still too raw from his death from cancer nearly two decades ago. “Grandpa Joe had demons?”
Ava nodded, her fingers twisting the wedding band she still wore. “The war changed him. Made him quick to anger, slow to forgive. I saw that same look in your Ghost-man’s eyes tonight. The look of someone fighting battles most people never see.”
Naomi rubbed her eyes, suddenly bone-weary. “Brandt said they’d try to get him out tonight. That it wouldn’t stick.” She glanced at the clock on the wall—11:37 PM. “But I should have stayed. I should have been there.”
“And what? Gotten yourself arrested too?” Ava shook her head. “Better you came with me. Let that marshal man handle the sheriff. It’s his job.”
“I never should’ve dragged Owen into this,” Naomi insisted, sinking back onto the couch. “I knew what kind of man he was, what he’s been through, and I still—” She broke off, unable to finish the thought.
“That man was in this the moment he laid eyes on you,” Ava said with absolute certainty. “Some paths cross for a reason, Naomi. Some knots are tied by forces greater than us.”
Her fingers found the fox pendant again of their own accord, tracing its curved body, the tiny gemstone eyes. She remembered the night he’d given it to her, his eyes uncertain as he’d explained the hidden panic button.
