Page 5

A dangerous lie. But one I needed to cling to in order to get me here in the first place.

That and my overwhelming need for vengeance.

“Holy crap, it is you,” the voice said as I straightened.

I regarded the woman in front of me. She was about my age, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, pressed pants, a pink blouse, and sensible shoes. Her sandy-blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, showcasing sharp, high cheekbones, small, delicate lips, and wide green eyes. She was pretty, prim, and not at all familiar.

The bottles in my hand clanged as I shifted my weight, trying to place the person who obviously knew me. Knew me well enough to recognize me under years of change, trauma, and pain.

Yet I was coming up blank.

“You don’t remember me.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Of course, you don’t remember me.”

“It’s not you.” I was quick to reply, suddenly caring about this woman’s feelings.

I didn’t care about people’s feelings, as a rule. Didn’t care about people. It was a survival tactic in my line of work. Caring about people was dangerous. Especially since most people I encountered were either in the business and had a short life expectancy or they were civilians tangled up with supernatural creatures. Their survival was a crapshoot. The other people I dealt with masqueraded as humans but were really monsters. And they died for good if I had anything to do with it. I didn’t bother with small talk with them.

Yet for some unfathomable reason, I was bothered by this woman’s obvious discomfort and embarrassment at my ignorance to her identity.

“I’ve worked hard this past decade or so to block out any and all memories of this place,” I informed her. “And I drink.” I gestured down to the bottles.

She let out a nervous laugh, lifting her hand to smooth her already smooth hair. “I, uh, that makes sense,” she muttered. “Considering…”

Considering your parents were brutally killed by a wild animal in your home while you watched was what she left unsaid.

She cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably as she realized what she’d been about to say.

“Shay Finkley.” She pointed to herself. “We, um, we went to high school together.”

“Shay Finkley?” I repeated, resisting the urge to rub my eyes to make sure I was seeing correctly.

“Yeah, you probably don’t remember me⁠—”

“I remember you,” I interrupted her. “I just—wow, you don’t look like you did in high school … I guess that makes two of us.” I winked.

Shay smiled shyly.

Now that I had a name for the face, I did remember her and saw the resemblance. In the eyes. The shy smile. But the rest of it … no. From what I could recall—which wasn’t much since she had been painfully shy—she wore thick bottle-cap glasses, had cystic acne, and braces for over two years.

My friends had talked shit about her, teased her. I hadn’t done that because I thought she was sweet. But I also never stopped their bullshit bullying either. I’d just stood by, never defending her. I winced at the memory. Being complicit is the same as being guilty.

I’d made all sorts of excuses for bad behavior back then. Lived in the gray, as teenagers were wont to do. Now my life was starkly black and white. Monsters and humans. Kill and attempt to save, then avoid the latter like the plague.

“I guess my hair has been introduced to leave-in conditioner and my acne finally cleared up.” She spoke dryly, but not with any menace. She didn’t seem to be holding a grudge, which she had a right to hold. I would’ve held on to it tightly, ready to bat me over the head with it if I were her.

“You look great,” I said, meaning it. “But I totally didn’t think you’d still be here. Please tell me you’re home because a great aunt died or something. Weren’t you going to work for NASA or something?” I struggled to remember what she’d said at career day. It was something smart as shit.

Her smile disappeared, and her eyes turned wistful. “The CDC,” she corrected. “I was going to be an epidemiologist.”

I nodded, remembering. “Yeah, you were going to cure plagues and shit.”

She smiled again. Not shyly. Tightly. Defensively. Oh, I’d struck a nerve. I was used to doing that. My social skills were not on par with my creature killing skills. You had one or the other. Not both.

“Something like that,” she muttered. “But … things happen, and now I’m here. I, uh, work at the coroner’s office.”

That made me raise my brows. If not some fancy scientist, she had a librarian vibe about her. But coroner? That was interesting. And helpful.

“Well, I’m in town for the foreseeable future,” I told her, attempting a friendly smile. I wasn’t practiced at those. “We should catch up over a beer or something.”