The needles stop. Aunt Etta sets the crochet in her lap and fixes Silas with a look I recognize—the same look she gave me when I told her I was joining the sheriff’s department instead of pursuing ward work full time.
Assessing. Measuring. Deciding whether the person in front of her is worth trusting.
“Library’s through there,” she says finally, pointing to the door that leads to the west wing. “Same wards as before. You know the rules.”
“No bending spines.”
“Don’t turn pages with wet hands. Don’t stack books on the floor. And don’t take anything out of this house without asking me first.”
“Understood.”
He stands, takes his tea, and heads down the hall. I watch him go, then turn back to Aunt Etta.
“He’s different from the last one,” she says.
“What last one?”
“The Council sent an envoy here twelve years ago. It was right after a flare. Man named Berrick. Cold, clinical, treated this town like a specimen under glass.” She goes on, recounting everything she remembers about his investigation before picking up her crochet again. “Silas has stuck around longer than I expected. I think he’s beginning to care about this town.”
“Yeah. He does.”
“You care about him.”
It’s not a question. I don’t treat it like one. “Yeah.”
“And the girl? Caroline?”
“Aunt Etta.”
“I’m old, not blind, Damon. I can smell her on you. On both of you, probably, from the way Silas was walking when he got out of the car.” She tilts her head. “Is she the reason you look like you haven’t slept in four days?”
“Partly.”
“Hmm.” Her needles click softly. “Well. I hope you’re being careful. With her. With all of it.”
I stand, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to make a call. Dahlia’s mom. I need to check on her.”
“Meredith Cross?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell her I said hello. And that if she needs anything, she’s to call me directly. Not the apothecary, not the sheriff’s line. Me.”
I nod and head to my room down the east hall. I close the door and sit on the edge of the mattress, then pull out my phone.
Meredith picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Meredith. It’s Damon Wilder.”
“Oh, Damon. Hi.” Her voice is tired, thin at the edges. “If this is about the town meeting next week, I really can’t?—”
“It’s not about the meeting. I’m calling about Dahlia. How is she?”
A pause. When Meredith speaks again, her voice has dropped. “Not good. She went into a really bad heat yesterday. Out of nowhere. She’s been on suppressants for years, and her cycle has always been regular. I don’t understand what happened.”
My stomach tightens. “Where is she now?”
