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I straighten and continue around the house. Every window locks properly. The basement hatch is secured from the inside. The shed door sticks slightly but closes tight once forced. A wooden gate opens onto the back garden.

That earns my attention. I inspect the latch. No damage. No signs of tampering. Still…

I slide a heavy clay planter in front of it. Not enough to stop someone determined. Enough to make noise. Sometimes warning is more valuable than strength.

When I step into the garden, the air changes. Cooler. The temperature drops so abruptly that I stop walking. There isn't a breeze. The flowers barely move. Yet every instinct I possess tells me I've crossed an invisible line.

My wolf becomes alert. Not aggressive. Listening.

The distant sound of traffic drifting from downtown. Then⁠—

A whisper. So faint I almost dismiss it.

I spin toward the tree line. No one. The feeling disappears as quickly as it came.

When I walk back toward the cottage, the warmth returns. I file it away.

Observation. Not conclusion.

Inside, Carys has transformed her dining table into an investigation board. Legal pads.

Printed property maps. County tax records. A laptop. Three different colored pens.

She doesn't notice me immediately. She's completely absorbed in comparing addresses.

Some things never change.

"When did you print all this?"

She looks up.

"While you were outside."

"You own a printer?"

She blinks.

"...Yes?"

"I didn't think people under seventy still owned printers."

"I write for a living."

"So do reporters."

"They own printers too."

I can't help smiling.

"I stand corrected."

She notices.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You smiled."