Page 36 of Fang Fatale

Scrawled across the back of an old café menu.

Sorry about the mess.

I want to be the kind of person who leaves things tidy.

I read it three times.

By morning, my office resembles the home of a conspiracy theorist with excellent penmanship.

Sticky notes.

Maps.

Red string.

Enough evidence to convince myself of almost anything.

One smiley face scribbled beside an address leads me back to Button Cottage.

The privacy wards are old.

The neighbors are worse.

One anthropomorphic beehive.

One banshee with an unreasonable grudge against mornings.

My plan, therefore, is to do absolutely nothing.

For now.

Leland's check sits untouched in my account.

I place a hold on it.

Instead, I stop at the pet supply store.

Five minutes later I'm standing in front of an entire wall devoted to squeaky toys, wondering when my life took such a dramatic turn.

The cashier—a shapeshifter wearing an aggressively cheerful name tag—spots the duck in my hand.

“For a dachshund?”

“How did you know?”

“They're the only dogs who like these.”

She pauses.

“Either that or they all share a blood feud with rubber ducks.”

I buy two.

One for Barnaby.

One for what I decide to label emergency morale.

Birdie is sitting on the porch when I pull up, a mug in one hand and Barnaby sprawled across her lap.