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“Right. I’m Dante Jones. You need something?”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you about Paisley, if I could.”
Pain crossed his face, a clench in the eyes, in the muscle, that I’d have bet he felt as keenly in his heart.
“Connor has been asked to help find out what happened to Loren.” That was the truth, even if not all of it. “I understand Loren may have been the last person Paisley spoke with. And they’re both gone now....”
I let the implication hang in the air, watched understanding dawn in Dante’s face.
“You’d better come in,” he said, and held open the door, looking around outside again before closing the door behind us.
The interior, like ours, hadn’t changed much since its resort days. The same knickknacks and decor, although there were a few more rugs here and there, framed photographs, colorful blankets that made the space feel less like a vacation cabin, more like a home.
The front rooms were roughly the same size as ours, but the hallway branched down to the left, led to a few different doors. The air was tinged with spices—cinnamon and cumin—and the citrusy tang of sour fruits. And once again, healthy magic. I still wasn’t entirely sure if the absence of broken magic meant anything—or what had caused it in the first place—but it felt important that I hadn’t found it yet in the resort.
“You can sit,” he said, and gestured to the couch. “You want anything to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
“I’m going to have a root beer. We have some Goose Island from Chicago.”
“Then I’ll change my answer,” I said with a smile. “I’d love one.”
He nodded, pulled two frosted bottles from the refrigerator, popped the tops, and walked them over.
“You live here alone?” I asked, sipping the drink, which was ice-cold and delicious.
“With my girlfriend,” he said. “She works overnights in Grand Bay. I work for the clan here at the resort. I’m an electrician.”
I smiled at him. “That’s handy, having a contractor in-house.”
“It does come in handy,” he said, and sipped his own drink. “She was my younger sister,” he added after a moment, gesturing to a photograph above the fireplace.
I rose and walked to it. Dante and Paisley stood in front of the lake, Paisley holding up an enormous fish. She had her brother’s coloring—dark brown skin and eyes—and nearly identical short braids. She smiled broadly, obviously proud of the catch, while her big brother looked on, hand on her shoulder.
“She liked to fish?” I asked, glancing back at Dante.
“I don’t know that she liked it. She was good at it.” He frowned. “Paisley had a way with pretty much everything. Had instincts, could learn quickly. I took that the first time she went out fishing with me. Probably five, six years ago. She nailed that big boy in fifteen minutes.” He shook his head in wonder, still smiling, but grief pulled at the corners of his eyes.
“I’m very sorry, Dante.”
He nodded, lips tight.
I straightened the picture, then walked back and sat down on the couch. “You know Loren was murdered, and it was... bad.”
He nodded. “I heard.”
“Do you know what she and Loren spoke about before she died?”
“I don’t. Loren was an elder. Paisley was young, but interested in clan politics, I guess you’d say. I don’t know if that’s what they were talking about, but it might have been.”
“I understand she was killed while walking near the old main road. Did she walk that way often?”
“Sure,” Dante said. “She was a runner. Was doing what she called her ‘long run’ that day.”
“She was training for a race?”
“Some kind of marathon,” he said. “Or 50K. Is that a thing?”
