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“I didn’t realize I was being talked about.” It comes out sharper than I intend, and the old instinct kicks in right behind it, the one that spent twenty-four years smoothing out every wrinkle before Claire Ashford could catch it. Apologize. Smile. Win her over. My mouth starts to curve into the apologetic little grin I’ve deployed on a thousand intimidating women at a thousand of my mother’s events.

I stop it halfway.

“Small town. Everybody talks.” She shifts from coldly assessing to mildly bored as her roving eyes leave mine to peruse the table. “And Marthe has a reputation for taking in…strays.”

Shots fired. And they land. Stray.

I square my shoulders and meet her stare head-on.

“Often kind to strangers, is she?” I keep my voice level, let her hear that she hasn’t rattled me.

The frigid evening air should be fogging her breath the way it fogs mine, and it isn’t. Now I’m watching her like a stopped clock, waiting for the next hand to tick over. Then she comes unstuck, breathes.

She reaches past me, takes a slice of pie in a paper tray, and puts a ten on the table. “Some. Others? Not so much.”

Nick weaves through the crowd, loaded down with trays. I take half of them off him and start stacking the pies on the shelves.

“Anna.” His voice doesn’t carry its usual customer service warmth. “Can I help you with something?”

“Just browsing,” she says, turning back in my direction. Her jacket falls open on a brass badge clipped to her hip and a gun beside it. She thumbs the edge of the badge.

Nick puts half a step between her and me.

“Enjoy your stay in Ravenslight. However long that may be.” Then she’s gone.

“Who was that?”

“Anna Renard. Local sheriff. Our families have history.” He straightens a pie tin that doesn’t need straightening.

A woman with a badge and a gun who dislikes me. That’s the read I got, anyway.

“She called me a stray.” It’s supposed to come out light. It doesn’t. “First, I’m hiding. Now, I’m a stray. Everyone has opinions about what I am.”

Nick rearranges the pies and moves on to a stack of napkins that don’t need shuffling, leaving my comments untouched.

Marthe returns and ushers Nick and me out of the booth. “I’ll hold down the fort. You kids go enjoy the festival.”

He glances at me first, checking for permission.

I trail Nick into the aisle, people weaving around us. He turns on the spot, looking over the crowd for something.

I feel his distraction and now I’m a chore his mom saddled him with. “Marthe doesn’t have to know you ditched me if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“This way.” He grabs my hand and pulls me after him. We stop at a food truck. “These were the whole reason I used to come to this thing. The best funnel cakes in Alaska. You have to try them.” He’s gazing down at me, waiting for an answer, and I have no objections left.

We get to the front of the line, and he orders, then hands me a paper plate stacked with crispy funnel cakes, cream, and a crowberry compote.

“These are incredible,” I say around a big bite, and push the plate at him so we can share. He shakes his head. “You aren’t going to have any?”

“I ate earlier.”

“But you said you loved these.”

“They’re for you.”

We wander through the festival, checking out the different vendors until we find ourselves in a row of carnival games. I point to the enormous stuffed animal mounted on the prize wall behind a ring toss game.

“Is that beaver actual size?”