Page 80 of Dreamscape Therapies

I nod.

She motions toward the back of the store, where a narrow hallway disappears behind a display of hand-knitted blankets.

"My office is through here."

If I thought the front of the store was packed with yarn, the employee area puts it to shame. We follow Dany past shelves stuffed with so many colorful skeins that the individual shades begin to blur together. Everything is stacked precariously high, creating narrow paths between the displays.

Eventually, we reach a tiny office tucked into the back corner. A small desk is covered in half-finished projects, patterns, and notebooks, while a steel door marked Emergency Exit sits behind it.

Dany stops with one hand resting on the doorknob and takes a slow, steadying breath.

"When Detective Crowley came by yesterday, I wasn't sure what to think," she says quietly, still facing the closed door.

Vincent and I exchange a quick glance.

"Shane came here?" I ask.

I thought I told him not to get involved.

Dany nods. "He asked about my dream weaving. About..." She hesitates. "About Trent."

Her voice catches.

"It was strange, but he was very kind. I never imagined..."

She trails off before finally turning to face us. Her eyes are wet now, though she's fighting hard to keep herself composed.

"I've spent months believing I was helping someone escape an abusive relationship." She swallows. "If even half of what I'm starting to suspect is true, then I've made a terrible mistake."

The words hang heavily between us.

Dany looks toward the emergency exit before pushing it open. Warm desert air immediately spills into the room. She places a brick against the door to keep it open, then steps outside.

"If you're willing," she says quietly, "I'd like to hear your side of the story."

Vincent looks at me.

I give him a small nod and we follow her outside.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Vincent

The area behind the yarn shop is nothing like what I expected. Instead of a dumpster-filled alleyway with a few sad weeds fighting for survival, it's practically a secret garden.

Tiny flower beds overflow with wildflowers. Wind chimes sway lazily from a wooden overhang, filling the warm desert air with soft, tinkling notes. Someone has even crocheted tiny sweaters for the potted cacti.

It's ridiculous.

It's whimsical.

And, honestly, it's kind of amazing.

We settle around a small patio table with a mosaic top that reads NOT BASIC, BITCH! in bold rainbow letters.

I stare at it for a second before looking at Dany.

"I like your table."