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Because whatever he thought about his role as a man, cop, and old boyfriend—I was the one who had to watch over him.

During the short walk home, my ankle burned faintly again then stopped. Now that I knew that it was an active and deadly curse, it was annoying. Cowardly, really, to try to kill someone from afar. Do it to my face or not at all.

I looked around the quiet neighborhood on the off chance she was lurking somewhere, so I could get the showdown over and done with. No such luck. My ankle stopped stinging, and I didn’t drop dead. The witch had given up it seemed. For the moment.

I added a murderous witch to my list of things to exterminate in this town, along with any lingering feelings for the boy I left behind.

I idly wondered which would be more difficult.

ten

Surprisingly, I slept through the night.

Well, maybe not surprisingly since I’d popped another Oxy for my ribs and had consumed my body weight in whiskey the night before.

The price was a pounding head, a gut-emptying wake up, and the usual self-hatred that comes with a hangover.

Nothing I wasn’t used to. Not anything sitting in the bottom of a scalding-hot shower couldn’t help. After adding in a greasy breakfast and a quad shot espresso, I was ready to face the day and whatever monsters came with it. I hoped to fuck monsters came with it.

My plans were waylaid by the echoing chime that seemed to rattle both through the house and my brain.

“Who in the fresh fuck is that now?” I groaned.

I shoved on a passably clean Stevie Nicks shirt, not bothering with pants since it came to above my knees. Whoever was at the door would have to handle a half-dressed, hungover, bruised, pissed off Hadley. Because whoever had showed up unannounced at the ungodly hour of ten in the morning was no friend of mine.

When I opened the door, I confirmed my assumption. It wasn’t a friend. Just another parental figure who’d been like a second mother until I’d forced myself to forget she no longer existed.

Though Sharon Hughes was not one to let herself be forgotten.

“Well, you look like shit,” she exclaimed in greeting. “And probably in need of this.” She thrust what I thought was a coffee at me but what I discovered upon first sip was actually a Bloody Mary.

“I’m making you breakfast.” She pushed past me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and sweet-smelling hairspray.

I let her because I was still hungover and shocked. Also, no one was going to stop Sharon Hughes from going where she wanted to go, not even Hadley Harris, supernatural monster hunter.

I followed the click of her sensible, low-heeled designer shoes as she made her way to the kitchen. She knew the way, of course.

“Sit.” She pointed a French-tipped fingernail toward a stool at the kitchen island. The place where I’d perched many times, doing homework while my father cooked, where a huge portion of my memories were formed.

I hadn’t sat there since I arrived and hadn’t been planning on it. But again, I chose not to fight Sharon.

She placed a woven tote on the island, presumably full of whatever she was going to make. I tried my Bloody Mary, thankful for the hair of the dog and not questioning how or why she showed up with it.

“I didn’t come sooner because I wanted to give you space,” she explained, setting a frying pan on the burner. “Which neither of my boys deigned appropriate. Leave it to men to have the delicacy of a horse performing brain surgery.” She shook her coiffed head. Her Southern twang hadn’t been shaven down, even after living here for decades. Something I found incredibly endearing and comforting.

As was her presence—no nonsense, as if I had been gone for a week instead of over thirteen years. Though I knew that was just her approach. She wasn’t about to let me off easy.

She started frying bacon, eggs, the wafting smell of fat and grease appealing to my delicate stomach.

Then she poked her head in the fridge, tutting about none of the healthy things being touched before she set about cleaning and restocking it with more meals she’d brought in her bag.

“It wasn’t a man who gave you that black eye, was it?” She was finally done with the fridge and had moved on to turn on the intimidating espresso machine.

“No,” I replied honestly. “Definitely wasn’t a man.”

She nodded, and I expected more questions. But as was characteristic of Sharon Hughes, she never gave you exactly what you expected. “Good. I’ll make coffee. I hear you like it strong and black.”

“I do.” I didn’t bother asking her how she knew that. That was Sharon. Being its long-reigning, benevolent queen, she knew everything that went on in this town.