Ad copy

The moving truck’s taillights blinked ahead of us, punching dull red holes in the gray air. Two days past Thanksgiving, miles from everything we knew. Well, miles from everything the girls knew. I’d been to Laurel Gap many times. The drive from Knoxville took less than an hour, but it might as well have been a trip to the other side of the planet if you went by the mood in my car. I kept one eye on the winding two-lane and another on the rearview. “How’s Huey doing? He make it through the last set of curves?” Fiona, who’d become Fifi moments after she was born, scratched behind his ears. “He’s snoring. He slept straight through the construction zone.” She didn’t look up. Her arms curled around Huey’s warm, pudgy body like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go. “Wish I could’ve napped,” Meredith muttered. She’d been flipping through animal fact websites for thirty minutes. “You know, there are black bears here. Laurel Gap is full of them this time of year, right before winter. We should probably get bear spray.” “Bear spray,” I repeated, mostly to have something to say. The idea of Mere wielding a can of any kind of chemical weapon was enough to make me almost smile. “Serious. I read an article.” She twisted in her seat, her ponytail bouncing. “They raid trash cans all over town.” “They’re not going to come in the house and eat your homework,” Fifi said, poking at her phone. “Pretty sure our snack inventory isn’t up to bear standards.” Meredith shot her a look, but didn’t answer. That was their dynamic since day one. Mere the researcher, ready with a dissertation on any new threat, and Fifi, queen of sarcasm, always pretending nothing could get to her. In reality, everything did. Especially lately. On the left, Laurel Creek shimmered through the trees, yellow leaves fluttering above the dark water. Early frost still rimmed the grass in shady spots. We’d be in town in minutes. I should’ve felt more triumphant, like we’d really made it, but mostly I hoped I was doing the right thing. Sometimes you just had to make a call and jump. As we rolled into Laurel Gap, the main street looked the same as always. A tidy row of brick shops, a few glowing window displays, the whole place ringed with mountains that leaned close like nosy old neighbors. I slowed to a crawl, letting the truck get a block ahead. The bakery sat on the corner, right where Gran used to take me for cinnamon rolls as a treat on the weekends. A half hour drive, but worth it. They were that good. I hoped they hadn’t changed the recipe. “Hey, look, guys,” I said, tipping my chin toward the passenger side. “See the sign?” There it was, plain as anything. A green dragon, coiled around a cake, painted right up on the swinging wooden shingle. Someone had gone all-in on the fantasy theme. Cute. “Oh my god, is that a literal dragon?” Fifi straightened up, like she’d just caught a whiff of sugar. “That’s amazing. I want to go.” “Same,” Meredith said. “Look at the window. There’s, like a mountain of bread.” I slowed down so we could catch a good look. Trays of rolls and pastries waited on the other side of the glass. The kind of place with real flour dust on the counters and probably a woman behind the register who called everyone honey. I had a weakness for fresh bread. So did my daughters, especially if you added bacon, cheese, or any protein source approved by carnivores. “That’ll be our first stop,” I promised. “We’ll go as soon as we get the last box inside. You two can pick out anything you want.” Fifi grinned. She had a lopsided smile that always caught me off guard, because sometimes she went days without showing it lately. “I vote for the whole left side of the bakery case. But if I can only pick one, I’ll just… suffer.” Meredith turned back to her phone. “Does the bakery have Wi-Fi?” Probably. I hoped the house did, too. Another mental note for my growing checklist. Set up the router, keep the peace. The town moved past in slow motion. Painted shopfronts with old-fashioned awnings, a hardware store with a wooden bear out front, one tiny café with mismatched chairs on the porch. The trees had dropped most of their leaves, but red and gold scraps still clung to the sidewalk. Laurel Gap had character. It was nothing like the suburbs, more like a place people actually lived, not just slept. Gran used to say every mountain town was haunted. Not by ghosts, but by memories. I didn’t want to spook the girls with nostalgia, but I couldn’t help it. “You remember coming up here with Gran?” I asked. “When you were little?” Meredith shrugged. “Sort of. I remember the swings at that old park by the gas station. And that hike where Fifi fell in the creek.” Fifi made a fake-offended noise. “Excuse me, I was pushed. A mysterious force grabbed my ankles in the name of science.” “Yeah, well, you were sampling macroinvertebrates, and you leaned way too far,” Meredith shot back. “I just watched it happen.” I outright laughed. “That was the year you tried to bring home a water snake. Told me you’d keep it in a shoebox under your bed.” “You wouldn’t let me!” Fifi giggled, shaking her head. “Dream-killer.” I made a wounded sound. “I’m not the dream-killer. I’m the realist who didn’t want a terrified garter snake loose in my house.” For the first time all morning, there was lightness in the air. Small as it was, I’d take it. The truck took a hard right turn out of the main drag, up toward the cabins strung along the creek. Our home for the next, well, who knew how long. I’d signed the lease for six months, but if things worked out, I wanted to buy a house. Maybe a fixer-upper, something with a porch and a little bit of land. I’d squirreled away the money from selling Gran’s place for years, letting it grow with the market. The proceeds sat untouched in a savings account, waiting for the right moment. One day, I’d give these girls a forever home. For now, we had a three-bedroom rental, seven minutes from town and fifty-five from my office in Knoxville if I needed to go in. Nothing fancy. Just a sturdy cabin with a metal roof and a broad deck out back. But we’d have our own slice of woods, and the quiet. No more neighbors fighting at two in the morning, no more car alarms, no more traffic headaches. I’d take some peace and quiet. Maybe Fifi could, too. The last year had been rough on her. The anxiety had started at twelve and ramped up every semester. Then last year, the bullying got mean. It crept in with the locker graffiti, the notes left in textbooks, the sudden cold shoulders in the hallway. We tried everything, meetings with the principal, emails with teachers, even a peer mediation counselor, but it only made things worse for Fifi. Like they’d singled her out for caring too much and not fitting in. Mere was better at blending in. She had friends, or at least enough people on her side to buffer the worst of the social fallout. Fifi never figured out that trick. She went from the loud, reach-for-everything kid who cannonballed into the deep end, to someone who measured every word, eyes always scanning for incoming meanness. When Fifi’s therapist had suggested a “fresh setting, preferably close to nature,” I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen how she unwound outdoors. She hiked for hours without complaint, sat by rivers scribbling stories in battered notebooks, and seemed lighter in the woods than in any classroom. I wanted her to have that back. I wanted Mere to have space, too, but mostly, I wanted them both to feel safe. The house came into view at the end of a gravel drive. The creek ran just past the property line, close enough that I could hear water from the porch. Two yards past the steps and we were surrounded by trees. I pulled in behind the moving truck and killed the ignition. “Home sweet home,” I announced, doing my best to sound like this was the adventure of a lifetime and not just me faking confidence. “All hands on deck. Let’s check it out.” Huey, who’d been catatonic in Fifi’s lap most of the ride, perked up. Cavapoo senses at full alert. He tripped over his own paws scrambling out of the car. Fifi slung her backpack over one shoulder, hood pulled up to hide her face. She looked almost grown-up, long and lanky, but as soon as she stood on the path, she moved like she was waiting for a trap. Mere bounced out next. She had a new jacket, marigold yellow, that made her look like a wildflower in the November gloom. The movers barely glanced at us before starting the unload, which was fine. I liked the anonymity. Let someone else wrestle with the couch while I staged my pep talk. “Here’s the plan,” I told them as we hit the porch. “We run a perimeter check, make sure Huey doesn’t get eaten by bears, then bags to your rooms. Then Wi-Fi, snacks, and maybe we’ll scope out the bakery before they close.” “Do bears really eat dogs?” Fifi’s eyebrows shot up. She was being funny, but I could tell she wanted the answer, just in case. “Not if the dog is inside. Or, you know, bite-sized and annoying.” I ruffled Huey’s ears as he bee-lined for the yard, nose to the ground. Meredith did an expert eye-roll. “Well, that’s comforting.” She examined the porch, then eyed the bird feeder hanging from a rafter. “You know, bears can open most feeders. They have, like, super thumbs.” “Good thing we don’t have birdseed yet.” I unlocked the door and shoved it open with my hip. Inside, the rental smelled like floor polish and faint pine. The property manager had left all the lights on, so the shadows weren’t bad. Bare floors, clean walls. Zero personality, but that would change. Huey immediately ran inside and started house patrol. He zipped through the front hall, nails clicking. He doubled back, sniffed every corner, and finished by flopping against Fifi’s leg as if he’d earned a treat. She knelt to scratch his neck. “If it passes Huey’s test, it has to be good,” I said. We got out of the way as the movers brought in the first of the furniture, and I told them where to put it. Mere stared into the open living room. “Wow. It’s a lot bigger than our old place.” I stood back and let them explore. Sometimes it helped to let them scope things out before I started assigning chores. Mere moved straight for the kitchen, she always did. Peeked in every cabinet, studied the pantry, made a delighted sound at the sight of a double oven. Fifi hung back, examining the fireplace, then the big window looking out onto the creek. The movers, old pros, dodged around them bringing in the labelled boxes. For a second, I saw the little girls they used to be, pigtailed, giggling, chasing Huey through the weeds back in the yard at our first apartment. I missed that. Maybe I’d get pieces of it back here. “Can we see our rooms?” Fifi finally asked, eyes darting. “Of course. First bedroom up the stairs to the right, second one’s at the very end. You two can pick; whichever you want, just let me know. Mine’s behind the kitchen.” Mere was gone before I finished the sentence. Fifi trailed after, Huey glued to her side. I lugged the first of their suitcases in and listened to them shout room claims down the corridor. Fifi wanted the one with the view of the creek; Mere was more interested in the built-in desk. An old argument, perfectly predictable. I smiled to myself. Predictable was nice. It meant they were settling in. And being able to direct their beds and dressers to the right rooms was nice too. Once the movers were gone and the kitchen partially unpacked, I walked upstairs. I found Fifi sprawled on her bare bed, no sheets in sight, phone in hand. Huey was curled up in the dip behind her knees. “Wifi password?” she asked, barely glancing up. “Check the envelope on the kitchen counter. Should be in there with the welcome brochure and emergency numbers.” She made a little salute, then got up and headed downstairs. I left her to it and found Mere arranging her clothes in the empty closet, sixteen years old, and she wanted her shirts color-coded. She pointed at the blank wall across from the window. “If it’s okay, I want to get one of those plant shelf thingies. Like a vertical garden.” “If it doesn’t violate the rental rules, go for it. We’ll add it to the shopping list.” She smiled, her whole face lighting up. “Thanks, Mom.” I settled bags in my own room, did a quick lap to make sure there were no obvious issues like water leaking, thermostat working, all that jazz, and double-checked the kitchen for fire extinguishers. I couldn’t help myself. Years of living alone with twins meant always being prepared for disaster. Upstairs, I heard muted laughter, Fifi reading something to Mere, probably a meme neither would explain to me even if I asked. I let myself lean into the moment. As long as they were laughing, we’d figure out the rest. I cracked a cherry soda and opened the laptop at the kitchen table to check my email at the Natural Resources Conservation Service, NRCS, email just to make sure nothing was on fire at work. Nothing urgent, just a roster update and a reminder about the upcoming virtual check-in. I’d have to start my reports on the hellbenders soon, but for tonight, I could pretend we were just a normal family moving into a fresh house. Normal. Whatever that looked like. After a while, the girls wandered back in, drawn by the promise of food. “Did you ever finish the government paperwork to adopt a salamander?” Fifi asked, her tone full-on deadpan. “Because I was thinking, if you need a lab assistant, I’d be willing to raise a hellbender. Name it Steve. Teach it tricks.” I snorted. “Steve would require at least six months of forms, three people to approve, and he’d need to sign up for a biometric scan. Hellbenders are notorious for their paperwork avoidance.” Fifi grinned. “Lazy little dudes.” Mere leaned against the counter. “Steve the hellbender. Could probably run for mayor in this town.” “Only if Steve promises to outlaw birdseed,” I said. Fifi’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Wow, you’re really adapting to small-town life.” “Give me a week, I’ll have a secret identity and a casserole recipe.” I didn’t tell them the real reason I’d picked Laurel Gap wasn’t just the salamanders or the scenery, but the hope that a new place could give us a reset. Maybe for all of us. I caught Fifi watching me. Her gaze was different now, less exhausted, maybe, or just curious. “Do you think it’s going to snow?” she asked. “Sooner or later. Mountain weather is all or nothing.” She nodded, staring outside at the dimming woods. “It’s really pretty.” There. That was something. We finished up the night with microwaved pasta, because neither of us could find the box with the kitchen pans. I let the girls scroll their phones and promised we’d make the trek to the bakery in the morning. After dinner, Huey executed his second round-the-house patrol, then collapsed dramatically at Fifi’s feet like a mophead that had gotten loose. I checked on Mere. She’d found a spot by the window to set up a cluster of potted succulents, already fussing with their arrangement. She was humming quietly, a little habit from when she was small. I stood at the doorway and listened, just for a minute. Let the memories drift up, the chaos of moving day, Gran’s stories about second chances, the way my girls always found their own rhythms, no matter what happened. Tomorrow, there’d be unpacking. Groceries. Maybe a hike, or at the very least, a walk down to the creek to see what kind of aquatic life we’d inherited. There’d also be moments where everything felt impossible and the house too quiet. But tonight, I’d count my wins. Two teens fed and not actively arguing, a dog asleep on the rug, and a safe place to start again. I filled the tea kettle and watched the automatic porch lights flicker on, one by one. For the first time in months, maybe years, the sense of tightness in my chest loosened just a little. “Hey, girls, if you’re not tired yet, come check out the deck,” I called. “Should be a clear view of the stars out here.” Fifi arrived first, hoodie zipped all the way, with Huey in her arms. Mere followed, pulling on an extra layer against the wind. We stood side by side, taking in the dark and the hush and the slow burble of the creek. “It’s so quiet,” Mere said. “I mean, really quiet.” “Bet you could hear bears coming a mile away,” Fifi said. I watched them, side by side, still sparring, not broken. If there was hope to be had, it was in small moments like this. We lingered until the night turned our breath to fog, then headed back inside. Lights glowed warm in every window, and for once, the world outside could stay there. Mere yawned and stretched, already turning toward her room. “Wake me up when it’s breakfast time.” “Might wake up to rolls from the dragon bakery.” Fifi managed another smile. “I don’t want to miss that.” They disappeared up the stairs, footsteps already softening into the hush of the house. I closed up the kitchen, pulled out my phone to set my alarm early, and leaned against the counter for a minute. Somewhere out there, the hellbenders and work were waiting. But tonight, my girls slept safe. My job wasn’t done, but it felt a little more possible. Chapter Two: Chase I woke up at three am, as usual. I’d gone to bed early, at midnight, and still I wasn’t even a little bit tired. The house was dead quiet, but Caden was already pacing under my skin, restless, itching, hungry for air. Let’s go. I padded out onto the deck, rubbing the sleep from my hair, and didn’t bother with shoes or a jacket. The porch boards were cold. It snapped me awake. I took one deep breath, then I let the shift happen. Scales instead of skin, claws instead of fingers, everything stretching and growing until I could barely remember my own shape. It always hurt for a second, like all my bones cracked and glued themselves together in new places, but then the dragon took over. Caden liked the night. He liked the wind even better. We lifted off fast. My wings shoved air in huge, quiet blankets. I didn’t look back at the house, or at the trickle of yellow porch light leaking from the kitchen window. There was only sky and nothing else. Flying was the only thing that made sense when everything else refused to. No inspections, no fruit deliveries showing up bruised and unusable, no questions about if we served low carb creme brulee or discussions on why trash pickup in Laurel Gap happened on Wednesdays instead of Mondays, which was objectively the superior trash day. Just cold air and the ink of a pre-dawn sky. Mountains reared up on every side, old and stubborn. Caden wanted to show off, so we torqued around the ridges, catching the weird, sweet scents rolling up from the valley. Smoke, dry grass, a waterfall on the far side of Dragon’s Peak that hit the cliff like a drum. I looped low across our acreage, wings tucked close, and got a thrill that punched harder than caffeine. My family's territory, guarded by old spells. The creek gleamed like a live wire. Further. More. Caden always wanted to fly longer, but the bakery wouldn’t open itself, and my cousin and boss, Maeve, had definite opinions about punctuality. I circled once more, enjoying the rush of wind this high, then arrowed back down and landed behind the house, slowly and carefully as a heron. The ground felt different after flying, rubbery, too small. I shifted back, my human bones knitting together like nothing had happened. I adjusted my clothing, which shifted with me thanks to Maeve’s spell, and tried to pretend Caden wasn’t already peering out through my eyes, looking for threats. He never turned off. Not even for Maeve’s cinnamon rolls. By quarter to four, I slipped behind the wheel of my SUV and drove into town with the windows cracked. Laurel Gap was even quieter before sunrise. Every shop light off, not a single car moving. By habit, I checked every alley and side street as I went. Old dragons know better than to ignore the dark. The Sweet Dragon Bakery glowed faint and gold. Someone had left a light burning in the window. That was Maeve’s doing. She never trusted the timer on the front lights. I parked around back and unlocked the back door. The first whiff rolled over me. Cinnamon. Warm flour. The sharp, green snap of vanilla. Not the cheap stuff, but the three-decade-aged brew Maeve swore could knock sense into the dead. And behind all that, stubborn as weedkiller, was mint. Spearmint, not wintergreen. Someone had chewed gum in here yesterday evening as we were closing and the stink lingered. Odd, it was a bit long for it to linger. I winced. That stuff interfered with our magic and our senses. Not a huge deal for humans, but Caden hated the sharp sting. My head buzzed with it. I took refuge in muscle memory. Hands in flour, water in the bowl, my own rhythm waking up as I kneaded the dough. I liked the way my hands moved faster than thought. There was comfort in the push and stretch, the way bread came alive if you treated it right. The bread didn’t care about moods or gossip. The kitchen just wanted me to pay attention. And maybe not burn the place down. Maeve had left everything in its place. Clean aprons starched and hung lin a row. Rolling pins stacked by size. The old stone hearth waiting to be coaxed back to life. There were photos on the wall, all of them crooked from the last time someone dusted. And on the shelf above the register, twelve of my own carved animals stood watch. Maple, walnut, driftwood. Some tiny, a racoon family. Some deer big enough to use as bookends if you didn’t mind getting stabbed by antlers every time you took down a cookbook. The old-timers who came in for coffee always asked how long it took to make them. Truth was, they took less time than socializing. I liked to give them away when it felt right. I finished shaping the first batch of dough, squinting through the vanilla haze. I could still smell mint, lurking under everything. That knocked Caden sideways. Find it. I humored my dragon and did a little digging. I should know to trust him by now. Sure enough, I found a small wad of chewing gum stuck to the side of one of the garbage cans. I made quick work of cleaning it up and headed back to the kitchen. Thanks. The oven hummed. The heat felt good after the outside chill. I lined up cinnamon rolls like soldiers, doused them in extra brown sugar, and loaded the trays before Maeve showed up. She always claimed her sense of taste was better than mine, and it was, and if she picked up on the mint in anything baked here, she’d start a whole lecture on bakery hygiene that would last until closing. Next, timers. Set them all. Triple-check, because the one time I got distracted and left a sheet in too long, I’d heard about it for months. Despite the routines I’d developed over the last eighteen months of being back in Laurel Gap and working at the bakery, my head was somewhere else. The dough in my hands went slack. Caden growled. He was uneasy. Most days, he only woke up if something needed defending or if there was free food on offer. Today, he’d spent the whole flight watching the roads. Looking for threats. I couldn’t shake it, either. Like sitting in a waiting room, half expecting the phone to ring with news I didn’t want. I tried to focus on kneading. The dough stuck to my palms so I floured the counter and kept moving. After a while, the yeast worked its magic, and the next batch went in the proofer. I checked the time. Sunrise was still an hour off. The bells on the back door jingled. It was just Maeve, bundled up in a fluffy sweater and her usual half-apron, hair already caught up in a tight bun. “You in here, cousin?” she called, not bothering to check before whipping a towel in my direction. “Because if you are, consider this your warning, I’m not starting the week with scorched bread.” I ducked, but not fast enough. The towel snapped my elbow. “Hey, easy now,” I protested. “No casualties yet.” Maeve stalked over to the prep bench, eyeing my work like a sergeant inspecting recruits. “Mmm-hmm. If I find a single crumb of char, I swear, ” “Not even close,” I insisted, chin up. “We’re strictly golden-brown this morning.” She snorted, but the gesture was pure affection. She always covered it with tart teasing. Maeve checked the timers, took one deep sniff, and made a face. “Is that mint? I thought we scrubbed it out last night.” I raised both hands. “I found a wad of gum.” She eyed me. “It is your turn to clean it up.” “Yep, and I already did.” No witch or dragon enjoyed cleaning up mint. Even if she couldn't shift to dragon form, it still bothered Maeve too. That satisfied her. For now. She leaned in to inspect my next batch, then turned her focus to making fillings for meat pies and sausage rolls. The kitchen settled into its usual dance. Maeve at the stove, cooking meat. Me rolling out biscotti, half my brain somewhere miles away. Caden never stopped listening for trouble. I tried to calm him with coffee, but it didn’t work. My dragon was convinced something was up. The next batch went in the oven without a hitch. Except… crap. I’d forgotten to set the timer for the cinnamon rolls. I lunged for the oven, and whipped the tray out. Not a total disaster, but the bottoms were darker than I liked. Maybe not cinders, but close. Maeve glanced over. “Oh, damn. That’s not what I think it is, right?” I set the evidence on the counter. “They’re… caramelized.” “Chance. I can smell ‘caramelized’ from here. Those are teetering on the edge of burned.” I shrugged. “Some people like the crunch.” She gave me a look that could have wilted the herbs out back. “Bake any more cinders and I’m telling your mother. And you know damn well she’ll dig out the ‘trainee’ apron.” That would’ve been a fate worse than death. The bells over the front door tinkled. Too early for the regulars. I peered through the display case and froze in place. A black SUV, slick as a hunting cat, sat parked at the curb. Windows tinted. Engine idling. SkyArc Resorts. The logo was unmistakable, even half-obscured by a mud splatter. Trouble. The kind Caden could smell from three streets away. I squared my shoulders and tried to ignore the way my stomach knotted up. Maeve had her back to the window, kneading like she meant to punch a hole through the dough. She missed nothing, but she also didn’t like worrying when there were paying customers to be fed. Not that our family needed the money, but we didn’t run this place for money. It was our passion. It’d been in our family for over a century. I inched closer to the glass, plant-pot camouflage and fake cheese danishes between me and the world. The SUV didn’t move. No one got out. Weird. Make them leave. Caden growled in my head. “Maeve, check this out.” I jerked my chin at the window. She didn’t even look up. “If it’s not a customer, don’t waste your time. The only people up this early are contractors and nosy neighbors.” I kept staring anyway. SkyArc didn’t do subtle. They moved in, bought up land, and turned everything into “cozy vacation cottages” overnight. Last time they’d sniffed around, a whole street of cabins had lost their view of the creek to cheap condos. Maeve finally noticed the silence. “What is it?” I pointed with the flour-dusted handle of a wooden spoon. “SUV.” She approached, wiping her hands on her apron, and gave the vehicle a hard look. “Ugh. Leeches,” she muttered. “They’ll leave once they realize we don’t do breakfast for corporate drones.” But she kept watching, eyes narrowed. Inside, Caden growled. My dragon had gone from restless to outright furious. I couldn’t blame him. We’d put too much work into coming back. Nobody was taking Laurel Gap away this time. I shaped another loaf, working extra fast to burn off the nerves. Flour dusted my shirt and clung to the ridges in my hands. The next batch of rolls came out perfect, but even that didn’t shake the feeling. The SUV sat, stubborn as a glacier. No movement. Just the slow, rhythmic haze of exhaust melting against the dawn. Why were they parked here? The regulars started to trickle in as the sky shifted from gray to pale yellow. Maeve called me back to reality by flinging a towel at my shoulder. “Heads up, baby cousin. If you burn another tray, you’ll owe me a week of cleaning the bathrooms.” She was a whole week older than me. Still, I kept one eye on the window. Maeve slammed a tray onto the counter. “You want to stalk the enemy, at least do it with more bread in your hands.” I shot her a half-smile. “Noted.” She snorted, not unkindly. “Just don’t scare off the paying customers. They’re the only ones keeping this place from turning into a haunted house.” Caden and I snorted together. This bakery will outlast everyone, even if the ghosts had to keep the ovens running. I settled behind a mountain of crusty loaves, blocking myself from Maeve’s view, and watched the developers through smeared glass while the scent of cinnamon finally overcame traitor-mint in the air. The bell over the door chimed and a rush of cold air swept through. In the middle of it stood a woman. Not one of the regulars, that much was obvious. She paused just inside the threshold, taking in the bakery with a careful sweep, like she wanted to memorize every color, every smell. Short and soft, with a glow that made her look sort of unreal in the pale light. Curvy, yeah, but there was a steadiness about how she planted her feet, how she held her head high. Her hair, thick and dark, was pulled back in a ponytail. Her scent, god, that scent. Caden almost knocked me to the floor lunging at it. Underneath the vanilla and sugar and yeast, there she was. No question, it was her. The woman from the party. That night still burned behind my eyes, even years later. Absinthe and Everclear, that had been the combo. College party, music too loud, and enough green haze in the air to make bad ideas look like genius. She’d been the only one in the room who understood what it was to be invisible and still impossible to ignore. Just for one night, I’d let myself forget everything, family, duty, secrets, and we’d vanished together. No names, no baggage, just touch and warmth and a half-drunk promise to see what happened next. Except next never came. The Hollow Order had already been sniffing around. A Hunter was spotted in Hollow Ridge and my family was boxed up and on the road before sunrise just a few short months after the party. Maeve spotted her first. Typical. “Morning, honey,” she sang out, already working her best southern hospitality. “You here for breakfast, or just to case the cinnamon roll situation?” The woman laughed, low and warm. “Little of both, but mostly breakfast. My girls, they’re ruthless. If I come home without something good, I might get locked out.” “Oh, I know those types,” Maeve said. She winked at the woman as if they’d been co-conspirators for years. “What can I set you up with?” The brunette’s gaze flicked toward the display, gaze running over every item with deep concentration. She didn’t look nervous, just focused. Maybe a little too practiced at hiding nerves, but who wasn’t, these days? She tapped the glass, then smiled at Maeve. “That cheese danish, please. And the spicy cinnamon rolls.” Maeve beamed like she’d found a lost relative. “Anything else?” The order grew, a couple iced cookies, four sausage rolls (“for the carnivores at home, not me”), a multigrain loaf if Maeve had it. Nothing fussy; she sounded like someone who’d stood in a hundred bakery lines and already knew what she wanted. All the while, I stayed behind the baking rack, pretending to stack trays but really just watching her. Talk to her! I ignored my dragon as the woman, whose name I’d never even learned, didn’t even glance my way. She’d said she had daughters. She’d found someone, settled down, and I wasn’t going to ruin that for her. Caden growled. Maeve made chitchat, asking about the kids and if she was new in town. The woman grinned and made a joke about moving and the number of boxes versus the number of siblings, how everyone survived and only the dog remained traumatized. She laughed easily. I’d bet money she was a good mom. The kind who remembered field trip forms and which color cup each kid liked at breakfast. What would she think if I just popped up, dough in my hair, and said, Hey, remember me? Do it! Maeve boxed up the order, humming under her breath. “Anything else?” she asked, double-checking the ticket. “Do you have those chocolate croissants?” the woman asked. “It’s Meredith’s absolute favorite. She’s had a tough year, so I promised.” “We do, and I’ll throw in an extra since it’s your first week in Laurel Gap.” Maeve’s smile made everything sound easy. They kept talking, and it all ran together in a blur of kid stories, plant recommendations, and gossip about who’d bought the old book store. I barely heard it. My brain stuck on the way she moved, fast, efficient. It killed me not to go up to her. It really did. But I stayed hidden, stacking pans and playing mannequin, telling myself it was the right thing. She deserved to keep her life. Caden disagreed. She’s ours! No. She’s moved on. There was nothing to move on from really. It had just been a one-night stand. She thanked Maeve, left an absurd tip, and turned for the door. Not a single look in my direction. But I saw the moment she passed the window, the quick glance she threw at the black SUV. Not long, but sharp enough to stab right through me. She clocked it as a threat, too. Maybe not consciously, but instincts didn’t lie. Then she was gone. The bell jangled once, then silence. Maeve peeked around the divider. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” she said, eyebrow raised. I tried to play it off. “Late night. Or maybe the mint poisoning’s getting to me.” She snorted. The SUV started its engine. I tensed, ready to block the door if it tried anything. But it just drove away in the opposite direction. Caden raked my insides raw, furious to let her walk away. I held firm. She’s moved on, I repeated. Or there was never anything for her to move on from. It’s highly unlikely she’s thought about me for the last seventeen or so years. He growled in answer.