Page 40 of Fang Fatale

For the first time since leaving Leland, I've slept straight through the night.

No dreams.

No metallic taste crawling up the back of my throat.

No endless landscape of being chased only to wake before I escape.

I scratch Barnaby behind the ears.

"Good boy."

He doesn't even flinch.

Downstairs, I stand barefoot in the kitchen, marveling at how insensible it is to call anything with a microwave and a can opener a cottage.

My mother would've condemned the place for lacking a dishwasher.

My standards for normal, however, have collapsed to the point where not haunted feels like a luxury.

I watch coffee drip into my mug, the aroma promising far more than it ultimately delivers, then flip on the tiny television tucked beneath the cupboards.

The local news is obsessed with—what else?—last night's incident at the blood bar.

Someone has already started a Facebook group titled Justice for Jacey.

Meanwhile, here I am, the invisible bystander, spooning instant oatmeal into my mouth and wondering how anyone manages breakfast before noon.

Barnaby lumbers downstairs and barrels through the back door, immediately throwing himself into the frosty grass. He rolls onto his back with blissful abandon, snorting and barking at a crow perched smugly on the fence.

I carry my coffee onto the porch and wrap Dandy's oversized cardigan tighter around my shoulders.

The cottage faces south, bathing the tiny yard in soft morning light. Dew still clings stubbornly to the grass, sparkling as though someone dusted the whole lawn with sugar. Everything glows beneath a greenish, watery light that makes the world feel pleasantly underwater.

I've never spent a morning this quiet in my entire adult life.

No appointments.

No expectations.

No pressure beyond existing.

For the first time...

Button Cottage feels like somewhere I live.

Not just somewhere I hide.

My phone vibrates across the chipped wooden table like an angry wasp.

CLOVER flashes across the screen in all caps.

I let it ring twice before answering.

"Hey... am I late for something?"

"No, no. I know you never sleep past nine, so I figured I'd catch you before you started your day."

Her voice drops conspiratorially.