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The cops at the gate have noticed me. They look over at my car, shielding their eyes against the golden October sunlight. I know damn well I should back away and get the hell out of here. But the gods drew me here for a reason, and I strongly suspect that reason is Nicholas Wolrath, that he’s living in that house on the other side of the gate.

But if I’m going to kill him, I need to know what’s going on. This many cops is never a good sign, especially when I killed two people not far from here. And if this is because of my handiwork⁠—

Well, I did promise myself I was going to protect Penelope.

So I plaster on the blandest, most benign smile I can manage, unbuckle my seatbelt, and step out of the car.

“Afternoon, officers!” I call out, lifting one hand. They look at each other, muttering softly. Too far away for a human to overhear, of course. But I’m not human.

“The fuck is this guy?” one of them says.

“Tourist,” the other says. “I’ll deal with him.”

A tourist. I can play a tourist.

“I seem to have gotten myself turned around!” I call out. “Think you can give me directions back to downtown?”

Some of their suspicion—the natural state of any cop—fades into disdain, which is their other natural state. I slap my hand on the roof of the car and look out over the valley, pretending to admire the scenery. I suppose it’s beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to the vistas up around my gas station. Really, though, I’m listening.

There are more cops around. Behind the gates. They’re harder to hear, but I do catch snatches of words here and there. Most of it is just bullshit—something about the football game that was on the other night, something about how they’re gonna have to call in the Denver boys. Something about a suspect⁠—

“You said you’re lost?” The cop from the gate steps in front of me, squinting at me from under his blue cap. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to grab him by the throat and throw him over the cliff.

A suspect. They have a suspect. But is it for the crime I think it is?

“Yeah,” I say, flashing him my best lost-tourist smile. “I went for a drive and, well—” I gesture out at the mountain.

“GPS not working?” He looks at me carefully. His suspicion is back. I don’t care, though. I need to hear what they think they know.

Please don’t be Penelope.

“Can’t get a bar on my phone to save my life,” I say cheerfully. “I was afraid I was gonna wind up in Wyoming.”

He chuckles at that. “Yeah, they like it isolated out here.”

“Can’t say I blame them.”

It’s hard, trying to listen to a conversation happening twenty meters away from me while maintaining one less than a foot away. But I do hear snatches of things. Like “Mountain Thistle Motel,” which confirms it is my work that’s got them riled up. And something about Wolrath wanting a suspect in custody before the party, that’s the big thing. Their suspect might not really be a suspect, then. A person of interest? I hear that phrase, snapping on the wind. Then: “Enough to bring him in for a few days.”

Him. Relief washes through me. Penelope’s not their target.

“—take a left at Highway 33,” the cop in front of me says, gesturing with one hand. “It’s a bit easy to miss, but there’s a turn-around if you do. That’ll get you back to town.”

I nod, still smiling at him. The other cops aren’t done. “—bring him in tonight,” one of them says. “Clifwell Inn.”

My whole body freezes. The cop in front of me frowns. “You got that, buddy?”

“Yeah.” I don’t know how I manage to get it out. “Yeah, follow this road about a mile and then take a left at Highway 33. Thanks”

I can’t hear the other cops anymore. The blood rushing in my ears is too loud, and I keep hearing Clifwell Inn echoing around in my head.

They may not be coming for Penelope, but they’re coming for someone at the same place where she’s staying.

And just like that, I’m the one stricken with fear. The kind of sick, strangling fear that makes humans do stupid things, like run barefoot into the woods, or think they can fight a monster like me.

And it seems that stupidity doesn’t just affect humans, because I hear myself blurt out, “So what’s all this about then? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I gesture at the cop cars. The cop sighs, but it’s more out of irritation than suspicion. He also doesn’t answer, and I’m desperate.