by Sam Burns
Hana didn’t even step out from behind the counter when he walked into the Half Moon, just smiled up at him and motioned over to where his father was already sitting, perusing the menu.
“Coffee?” she called, and when he nodded, she turned to grab a mug and the coffee pot.
He slid into the booth across from his father, who smiled up at him. “Hey, kiddo, how’s it going? You look cold.”
Fletcher rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Dad? It’s not even freezing outside.”
“Not freezing doesn’t mean not cold,” his father admonished. “And your family hails from the southwest. We’re always cold.”
Hana came over with the mug of coffee and a bowl of sugar, which Fletcher added liberally to his drink. He glanced up at her as he added the second spoonful. “What? It’s good coffee, but it’s, you know . . . coffee.”
“Might as well drink a soda if you’re going to put that much sugar in it,” she said, but her tone was doting grandmother rather than disapproving matron. Fletcher always wondered what Hana was, since she was obviously one of the town’s older residents but didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Her husband, James, had to be at least sixty.
It was rude to ask people what they were, though, whether one thought the answer was something supernatural or not. Some of the town’s residents had been through situations similar to Fletcher’s, and being open about their otherness was something they weren’t comfortable with.
Just to be obnoxious, Fletcher added another spoonful of sugar, knowing it was more than he wanted. The deep, motherly sigh and eye roll she gave him were more than worth it.
“Should I get you a salad to counteract all those calories?” she asked, lips quirked up on one side and a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe with no dressing?”
He snorted. “Can I get the grilled cheese with onion rings and a chocolate shake?” He gave her a giant grin, and she put her head in one hand.
“Your son is going to have heart disease by the time he’s thirty, Eric,” she told his father, turning to take his order.
His dad shrugged. “I hear he works out a lot. Running is good for you, I guess.” He flipped the menu closed and handed it to her. “I’m not much for running, though, so I will have a salad. The spinach. But with vinaigrette, since salad with no dressing sounds like a punishment.”
She gave him a smile even more motherly than the one she gave Fletcher, which wasn’t unusual among the townsfolk. Fletcher loved his father more than any other living person, and it was impossible to begrudge him the love of the town, but occasionally he wondered why his father was the one everyone liked, and he was the one who got all the side-eye.
“Something’s wrong,” his father said, as though he was the one who had news. He’d always been able to read Fletcher too well, so it wasn’t a shock he knew something was up.
After glancing around, Fletcher leaned in. “I suck at this. There’s a reason we always have Jen or Takao give bad news. They’re all—”
“Empathetic?”
“Yes, Dad, thank you. I’m not empathetic.” He stopped, took a swig of his way-too-sweet coffee, and stared at the chipped Formica tabletop. “There are some bad guys in town.”
His father nodded. “I heard that. Is that all? You were worried about me because some idiots with guns have rolled into town?”
“It’s not just some idiots with guns, Dad,” Fletcher said, his voice refusing to come out as more than a whisper. “One of them, he was—he was one of them.”
His father cocked his head, confused. “Okay. I’m sure that made sense to you somehow, but—”
“Them, Dad. One of them is one of the men who killed Mom.”
A plate almost fell to the table, Hana losing control of it as she tried to set it down in front of them. How had Fletcher not noticed her approaching with their food? That had been incredibly fast. Or maybe he’d hesitated longer than he’d thought before speaking up.
The book started whispering urgently in his brain, and he tried as hard as he could to shove it down. He couldn’t afford the distraction, not right now.
Hana set the second plate down and leaned toward them. “Have you told the sheriff yet, Fletcher? He has to know. You can arrest him. The sheriff can—”
“No,” his father cut in, and despite the fact that he was whispering, Hana went quiet. “They can’t arrest him.” Hana looked like she wanted to protest, but she waited for him to finish. He took a deep breath and tried, but it left him in a whoosh, as though he couldn’t make the words form. He looked to Fletcher for help.
“If I arrest him, he’ll know who we are,” Fletcher told her, sitting ramrod straight and affecting his cop persona. He wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy who had just dragged his father’s unconscious body out the window of a burning RV—and left his mother inside—he was a goddamned policeman. He was a trained professional. “And there are three of them, but only reason to arrest one. The others would go for help, and the town would be crawling with their kind in under a week.”
The look Hana gave him, mouth hanging open and eyes tear filled, actually gave him a little feeling of catharsis. At least someone else knew and was just as horrified that Fletcher’s mother was once again denied justice. Instead of saying anything, she bent over the table and wrapped her arms around him, so tight he struggled to breathe for a second.
The whispering started again, and Fletcher almost told it to shut the hell up and go away but realized that the only person who would hear was Hana. He didn’t want to say any such thing to her. She pulled away after a moment and cupped his cheek with her hand before turning and retreating into the kitchen, where he suspected she was going to cry the way he wished he could.
“Good thing we’re at it late and the place is empty,” his dad said, waving a hand around the diner.
Fletcher looked around, and sure enough, there were less than half a dozen patrons in the place. As his eyes passed the door, though, they slowed and almost stopped. Only years of practice at managing his reaction to distress kept his face and body language impassive. Well, mostly impassive.
His dad raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
“No.” Fletcher looked down at his sandwich and didn’t want it at all. He also didn’t want to go looking for Hana to get him a box, and leave his father alone in a dangerous spot. Dammit. Rowan Harbor wasn’t supposed to be dangerous.
When the front bell jangled, and the murderers came in, Hana came out of the back, wiping her eyes.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to bother—” the sympathetic one started, but his friend, the guy who seemed to speak for them, cut him off.
“We want a booth.” He pointed to the empty booth reserved for members of the town council.
Hana knew who they were, and her face had already gone harder than Fletcher had ever seen it. She gave each of the three a long look, as though she could tell which was the man from Fletcher’s nightmares.
The guy started to talk again, but Hana cut him off. “That table’s reserved.” She pointed to another, one where both sides were in plain view of the front window. “That one’s free.” Fletcher wondered if she was hoping for snipers. He kind of was.
For a second, it looked like the guy in charge was going to protest, sweeping his hand in an arc to display all the empty tables. Hana gave nothing away, just standing there like a stone and waiting. Well, giving nothing away other than the fact that she didn’t like them, and they weren’t welcome.
The “nice” guy smiled at her and headed for the table she’d pointed at. “This one’s got a great view of main street. You’ve got quite the impressive collection of shops for such a small town.”
“Main street’s the next block over,” Hana told him as she handed him a menu. “With the bakery and the yarn shop.”
The killer chuckled at that. “Yarn shop? We look like the kind of guys who want to hear about a yarn shop?”
Fletcher’s father shuddered, almost convulsed. Obviously, he remembered
the man, and from his voice alone. Two of them had slid into the booth facing away from Fletcher and his father. The “nice” one looked up at them, eyes drawn by the motion. He started to move forward, or say something, but Hana, bless her, moved between them and asked for—no, demanded—their order.
Meanwhile, Andrei Volkov, who was Hana’s usual day-shift cook, came out with a pair of boxes. Thank goodness for werewolf hearing. He also positioned himself between the front table and Fletcher and his father, and without saying a word, moved their food into boxes and ushered them out the back door.
His father tried to pay, but Volkov rolled his eyes. “We’re practically kicking you out. We’re sure as hell not gonna ask you to pay.”
“I’d say you’re helping us get out,” his father countered.
“Dad, I think you can accept one free meal.” As far as Fletcher was concerned, his father deserved free meals for the rest of eternity. He’d known instinctively, since he’d first seen the men in the station, that the Lane family would not be getting justice. But the fact that they were giving up any claim to it to protect the Harbor? That damned well meant something, even if his father didn’t understand it.
Fletcher took the boxes from Andrei and put and arm around his father to lead him away. “Come on, Dad. We’ll go eat at the bakery. Lachlan won’t mind us bringing outside food.”
His father gave him a ghost of a smile. “Helena might.”
“She’ll live.”
And that was the point. Everyone would live. They just had to wait for the murderers to lose interest in Rowan Harbor, for them to realize that they weren’t going to find Solomon White there.
Fletcher shivered. He wished he could just tell them that they weren’t going to find the man anywhere. Would it make him feel better, being able to confess his crime to complete strangers who didn’t have any reason to see him as the good guy in the situation? Probably not. Plus, they weren’t good people. They would just see him as a new target to kill, the way they were currently looking at White.
They just had to keep Fletcher’s father away from the monster who had destroyed their lives and wait for the murderers to move on. Then their home would be safe again.
The voice whispered something in his head. It sounded cold and angry, and somehow, Fletcher thought he might agree with it. And maybe that was the most disturbing thing of all.
They decided not to eat, since neither of them was hungry. Fletcher drove his father home, and after leaving the food in his old man’s refrigerator, he walked.
He wasn’t sure how far he walked, or where he was going, but he knew he needed to move. He couldn’t be trapped in a building. He thought about going for a run in the forest and wasn’t even sure why he decided against it.
By the time he got to main street, he was shivering. His dad had been right about the cold. Of course he had. When Fletcher reached the door to the yarn shop, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know the first thing about yarn, but he knew the shop was probably where Devon would be.
He wasn’t disappointed. When he walked in, Devon was sitting behind the counter, staring at a piece of gray fabric on tiny, sharp needles. His expression was almost wounded, as though the fabric had insulted him. When he looked up and saw Fletcher, he dropped it and stood.
“Fletcher! Holy sh—come sit down.” Devon ushered him over to the plush chairs on the other side of the room, usually reserved for socializing knitters. They had been deep teal once, if their backs were any sign, but the sun from the front window had bleached them into a delicate, robin’s egg blue. Devon pushed him down into one and grabbed a blanket from the back of another, draping it over him. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Fletcher was still shivering when Devon appeared in front of him again with a steaming mug. Tea, Devon’s answer to everything. Fletcher hadn’t ever cared for the stuff, but when Devon made it, he couldn’t turn it down. He tried to smile. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing,” Devon said dismissively. “Are you warm enough? Need another blanket?”
“I’m fine, really. Just needed to walk. Forgot to bring my coat, or didn’t realize how cold I was, I guess.” The tea was good. Devon had added honey—something Fletcher knew he didn’t do for himself. The guy had been in town two months, and he probably knew how everyone in Rowan Harbor took their tea. It soothed his throat, which he hadn’t realized was raw and scratchy. He hoped he hadn’t been wandering around town, muttering in Gothic.
Come to think of it, the voice had been quiet since he’d realized the men were at the Half Moon. He cringed, remembering the way Hana had reacted to them. It would be a fine line for the whole town to walk, trying not to be suspicious without—poorly—pretending that the men were welcome in Rowan Harbor. Fletcher had a feeling they had already failed.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your, um—” He motioned over to the abandoned knitting on the shop counter.
Devon scowled over at it. “Don’t remind me. It’s going to have to wait till Salli gets here anyway. I lost a stitch somewhere, and I can’t figure it out. So your arrival was perfect timing.”
In his usual style, Devon didn’t say anything else. He didn’t ask what Fletcher had been thinking, or if he was an idiot trying to die of hypothermia, or what was going on. He really did remind Fletcher of his mother.
“Is it all over town already?” Fletcher asked.
Devon nodded. “You should know—”
Fletcher detached one hand from his mug of tea and held it up to forestall Devon. “Don’t. This is— I know what needs to happen, Devon. If you tell me otherwise, it’s just going to make it harder.”
Without a single doubt, he knew Devon had been planning to tell him that the town was prepared to accept the risk of more murderers if he wanted to arrest the man. As much as he appreciated the sentiment, he wasn’t prepared to accept it. He couldn’t be the reason Rowan Harbor was in danger. If someone caught the men doing something illegal, it would be different. He was more than willing to get involved in that. But his mother wouldn’t want to be the reason that thousands of innocent people were in danger.
“She was amazing,” Fletcher said. He hadn’t even realized what he was going to talk about until the words came out, but once they did, he didn’t want to stop. “She always joked that she was born in the wrong decade. Dad used to call her his lost flower child. Did you know he dropped out of med school to follow her around the country?”
Devon shook his head but didn’t speak, just let the air hang empty, waiting for Fletcher to keep filling it. So he did.
“She spent her whole life trying to force the government to protect the environment. Deforestation, lead in drinking water, toxic dumping, anything you can think of, she was there. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be that passionate about something. To care about one thing so much that nothing else mattered.” He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt wetness on his cheeks. God, he missed her.
Strangely, Devon was giving him a bemused smile.
“What?”
“You don’t think you know what it’s like to be passionate about something?” he asked. “You’re telling me that this town is more important than anything and then, less than a minute later, telling me you don’t know what it’s like to be passionate.”
Fletcher stared at his mug, taking a few deliberate sips before responding. “That’s different. Rowan Harbor has given us so much.”
“And the planet never gave your mother anything,” Devon answered with a roll of his eyes. “Fletcher, I don’t know why you’re so determined to see yourself as less than you are. If we manage to get through the—” The electronic bell over the door jingled, and they both turned to see who had come in.
It was him. The concerned one. Looking, of course, concerned. “I’m, uh, sorry to bother you. I don’t want to be any trouble, I just saw you earlier, and you looked—” He paused for a second, and a flush rose up his neck into his cheeks. “You looked sad.”
> “A bounty hunter is concerned about someone looking sad?” Devon’s voice took on that dangerous note that Fletcher didn’t like. Devon should always be happy, smiling, and kind. He shouldn’t have to protect a damned officer of the law.
The guy flinched a little, like the term pained him, or maybe Devon was causing him pain somehow. “I’m sorry. It’s not—” He sighed. “I know no one wants us here. Those attacks have probably already been enough trouble to last a town like this the next decade, and we’re not exactly helping.”
“No,” Devon agreed, “you’re not. And you’re also wasting your time. That guy isn’t in Rowan Harbor.”
“Maybe,” the guy agreed. “Frank seems pretty convinced he’s still here, and he’s got a good instinct for this kind of thing. Wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?”
Devon snorted in disgust. “The Rowan Harbor police can handle one guy if he shows back up.”
“The cops here aren’t used to dealing with violent crime, though. I know they’re well trained.” He nodded to Fletcher. “That guy, Officer Hunter, he was really thorough. But backup isn’t a bad thing.”
Fletcher had been so prepared to talk about his mother for the rest of the afternoon, but now his voice failed him. He and the guy looked at each other uneasily for a moment, and Fletcher tried very hard not to notice that he was good looking. The other murderers looked like most men in their profession. Hard, angry, and older than their years.
This guy, though, couldn’t be much older than Fletcher. His skin was perfect, but for one small scar that cut a line through his left eyebrow. He had the brownest eyes Fletcher had ever seen, huge and warm, like a sympathetic cartoon character.
“Look, I know Frank and Bob don’t come off the best, but I swear, we’re just trying to make everyone safer. That’s all.”
Frank and Bob. Such benign, boring names for men who were trying to destroy everything Fletcher loved.
The guy sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I really am sorry if we’re making anyone uncomfortable. I—”
“You have a name?” Devon asked. His voice had gone back to normal, and he was settling back into his chair, as though he’d changed his mind about the situation entirely. Fletcher was worried he would get whiplash trying to follow Devon’s mood.
