Page 15

A lot of the supernatural creatures I dealt with were wild, beastly, but they all had a shared goal—to operate under the radar. Easier to murder, maim, possess, or puppet unsuspecting humans that way.

So I ended the day with a headache, no answers, a fuck of a lot more questions, and a sinking feeling that there hadn’t been just one werewolf skulking around town. It might be a little bigger and more complicated than all that. Which meant I might have to stay for even longer.

The mere thought of it put me off the burger I’d picked up on the way back to the motel, sending me straight to the half-empty whiskey bottle.

Not that I got to enjoy it. There was a heavy rap on my door before I could even pour myself a second drink.

I opened the door, sighing when I glimpsed the man standing there.

“I should’ve stayed in Salt Hill,” I muttered.

Gerald laughed, deep in his belly. Rich and warm. Genuine. As was his way. The police chief had never wielded his power with malevolent authority. He’d always had a smile, kind eyes, and was more apt to let you off with a warning than give you a ticket.

Unless you fucked him over.

You fucked Gerald Hughes or anyone in Dreadwood Falls over, you answered to a completely different man.

That man was nowhere to be seen. Not while I was standing in the doorway of my motel, at least. Give me time. I’d get the man who had once considered me a daughter to turn on me.

He looked like Colton, same strong, masculine features. Same uncanny lazuline eyes but with more lines on his weathered face than Colton. He smiled easier too. His son had somehow lost his boyish ease, becoming far too serious for his own good. Or maybe it was just my presence that caused that.

I haphazardly wiped my face with the sleeve of my Metallica tee to catch any rogue ketchup. My hair was disheveled, makeup still smudged. I knew I looked like shit.

The last time he’d seen me I was a blonde teenager whose whole world had gone to shit and barely spoke. Gerald didn’t so much as blink at the rapid change to my appearance or the likely reek of cheap whiskey emanating from my pores.

“The motel in Salt Hill probably would’ve called me the second they got a look at your driver’s license, sorry to say,” he replied easily.

I pursed my lips. I hadn’t planned on using my real driver’s license when I got this room. But I also hadn’t planned on being recognized the second I blew into town. I knew this place well enough to comprehend that everyone would know I was there within twenty-four hours. And if I tried to use a fake ID, that would open a whole fucking can of worms.

Under the radar was the plan.

The plan that was rapidly going ass over tits.

“I guess I can’t just come home again.” I gripped the door. I wanted to give him my trademark scowl and general hostility, but it was hard. I’d liked Gerald. He was warm, kind, and funny. Though he was nearing his sixties now, he still looked good. Tall, in shape. A terrific moustache liberally sprinkled with gray, same with his dark hair. His eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, from smiling, which he was doing now.

“You can come home again,” he countered, looking pointedly around the motel. “This just ain’t it.”

I clutched the door harder. There was no point in telling him that motel rooms were as close as I’d gotten to home in thirteen years.

“Well, Dreadwood Falls has yet to build a Four Seasons, so this is the best I got.” I made it sound like a joke, yet it was true.

The town itself was too out of the way to have a thriving tourist trade, so it hadn’t been bastardized by conglomerates. It was pretty enough to attract people who ventured off the beaten path, who heard of the place from word of mouth or came to visit relatives. The choices for accommodation, therefore, were either this motel or one of the handful of bed and breakfasts with charm and warmth and nosy fucking proprietors. I was not a bed and breakfast person by nature or by budget.

“Not talking about the accommodations, nor am I judging you for ’em.” Gerald’s bushy brows furrowed. “Just letting you know there’s a perfectly good house just sitting down the street with better plumbing, thicker walls, and a lock that does more than keep the door from swinging open in the wind.”

My pulse kicked up.

Surely, he couldn’t be talking about…?

No.

He couldn’t be talking about the home I grew up in. I didn’t know what happened to it. But I could guess. The Victorian that my father had spent years restoring was hot real estate in this quaint and sought-after town. It was likely worth a mint. Since I’d run out of town and had not been seen or heard from in years, I’d assumed it went into foreclosure or was given to some distant relative who sold it and made a pretty penny. If I’d had my wits about me back then, I would’ve waited until I could take possession of the house, sold it, and made some money that would’ve lasted me through the years so I didn’t have to run various scams in order to survive.

It had already been established that I did not have my wits about me then.

Instead of focusing on Gerald’s comment about my home, or lack thereof, I instead zeroed in on his not-so-subtle dig and the shitty lock on the flimsy motel door.

“Aren’t you the police chief of these here parts?” I asked him in a fake, old-timey Western accent. “I’m sure you know crime around here is slim to none. The only thing I need to worry about with this lock is it holding against nosy people knocking on the door, wondering why I’m back in town after all these years.” I looked from said door to his kind, blue eyes. “Present company excluded, of course.”