Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
ISABELLA
T he air in the Cascade Mountains bites through my wool coat as I stand at Arthur Whitfield’s graveside in the small town of Shadow Hollow, the wind carrying the scent of damp earth, rain-soaked pine, and wet trees. The weather here is far more bitter than where I live in Seattle. The sky is heavy with low-hanging clouds, the kind that threaten snow but hold back like a deep breath. Arthur had retired here after teaching at Washington State University to open his own veterinary clinic. Arthur had been my mentor and advisor when I studied at WSU. Shadow Hollow feels like a painting on the edge of smearing, something off-kilter, like the ache in my chest that refuses to settle.
The funeral crowd is small, mostly people from town. I’ve never felt so out of place among a group of people in my life. Their quiet gazes landing on me, then shifting away as if they know something I don’t. Dorothy Canning, the woman who owns the bakery, stands nearest to me, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue. I’m grateful for her presence, though she hasn’t said much beyond offering me a pastry and condolences earlier this morning.
Arthur’s headstone is simple, marked with his name and two dates. No epitaph. That was his style—practical, understated. The man who became like a father to me when my parents were killed in an automobile accident and taught me to care for injured animals, fix fences, and see the beauty in simple things and places. He was supposed to grow old in this place in that clinic, not die suddenly, not like this.
I step closer to the grave as the others begin to disperse, murmuring their goodbyes. My boots sink into the muddy ground.
“How did it happen, Dorothy?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “Arthur was healthy. He—he never even caught a cold.”
Dorothy hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The sheriff says it was an accident, Bella,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Something to do with his heart giving out.”
“His heart? Arthur hiked the mountain trails every weekend. He had the heart of an ox.” My frustration and grief bleed into my voice, but I don’t care.
Dorothy glances around nervously, as if expecting someone to overhear. “Sometimes things like this just happen,” she says, patting my arm. “He would have wanted you to carry on, sell the clinic and live your life in Seattle.”
I watch her retreat, the question of how Arthur really died sinking deeper into my mind like the wet earth at my feet. I know I should sell the clinic—it’s the practical thing to do—but I don’t know that I can. In any event, I know I can’t make a decision about that right now.
Back in Seattle, the sound of my boyfriend Danny’s voice grates on my nerves before I even fully step through the door of our loft. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He looks like the kind of man who should be in control of everything, and that’s exactly how he likes it, but he’s not any good at it, and resents it when I have to clean up the messes he’s left in his wake.
“You can’t be serious about staying in that backwoods town, Bella.” His tone is clipped, impatient, as if this discussion is a waste of his precious time.
I drop my bag onto the floor and kick off my boots. “I haven’t made any decisions. It’s not just about the clinic, Danny. Arthur left it to me for a reason. And I don’t believe he died the way they said. Arthur was always so healthy. Dying of a heart attack just doesn’t feel right. I owe it to him to figure out what happened.”
“What are you, Jessica Fletcher? Solving mysterious deaths in a small community?”
“No, but Arthur was my mentor… my friend. If someone is trying to cover up the real cause of his death, there’s a reason, and I owe it to him to find out.”
Danny rolls his eyes—not a very attractive trait in a full-grown man. “You don’t owe him anything,” he snaps, pushing off the counter. “This is your chance to sell the clinic and that old mill house he lived in, and use the money for something that matters—like buying a house here. Together.”
“Something that matters?” My voice rises as I step toward him. “Arthur mattered to me. That clinic matters to the people in Shadow Hollow. To the animals. I won’t just walk away.”
His jaw tightens, and I can see him weighing his next words. “You’re being ridiculous,” he finally says. “You’re chasing some conspiracy about an old man’s death when you should be thinking about us, about our future.”
“Maybe you should be thinking about why you can’t support me on this,” I fire back. My pulse pounds in my ears, the frustration of the day boiling over. “This isn’t just some whim, Danny. This is my life.”
“No, Bella. Your life is here with me. Or it was.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this anymore if you’re going to throw everything away for some dead man’s legacy.”
His words hit me harder than I expect, but I lift my chin, meeting his gaze with all the tenacity I can muster. “Then maybe you’re not the person I thought you were.”
He doesn’t respond, just looks at me for a long, cold moment before walking out of the loft without saying another word. I wait up for him, but he doesn’t return before I have to leave for my shift at the veterinary clinic.
The next day, when I return to the loft, I can tell something’s wrong before I even reach the door. My key doesn’t fit. I jiggle it, but the lock won’t budge. I double check that I am at the right unit and try my key again. Nothing. A flush of panic rises in my chest. I knock, but there’s no answer. My phone is dead; I forgot to charge it before heading out earlier.
The concierge catches my eye as he approaches. I step back noting his uneasy expression. “Miss Gordon,” he says, approaching me. “I have something for you.”
He hands me a folded letter, and I tear it open right there in the hallway.
Bella,
I’ve changed the locks. Your things are in the
storage locker. I can’t do this anymore. We’re done.
—Danny
The letter trembles in my hand as I read it again, the words sinking in like jagged rocks. My things are in the storage locker. He didn’t even have the guts to face me. The air feels too thick to breathe as I stagger back against the wall, humiliation and anger burning through me in equal measure.
This is it. There’s nothing left for me in Seattle. No Danny, no loft, no future here.
I have nothing. No. That’s not right. I have Shadow Hollow, Arthur’s clinic, his mill house, and a town that feels more like a storm waiting to break than a sanctuary. But it’s more than I’ve got here in Seattle.
I turn to the concierge. “I signed nothing that obligates me for the extra fees associated with the storage locker. I’ll go get my files and my clothes. Tell Danny he can deal with whatever else he put down there.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Gordon…”
“I doubt it, but it’s okay. You can now call Danny any time you need something or there’s an emergency.”
I turn on my heel and walk away. Bitchy? Snarky? Probably, but I don’t much care. As I get back in my Jeep, I wonder if I’ll actually find the answers I’m looking for in Shadow Hollow.
The road to Shadow Hollow winds like a dark ribbon through the Cascades, flanked by towering evergreens that seem to lean in closer with every mile. The rhythmic hum of my tires on the aging asphalt is the only sound, apart from the occasional sigh of the wind rattling the trees. I’ve driven this route before, but it feels different now—lonelier, heavier. Maybe it’s the weight of Arthur’s death or the knowledge that my life in Seattle no longer exists, but I depress the accelerator a little harder. No use looking back. The only life I have is ahead. Whether Shadow Hollow is my final destination is unknown, but for now, it’s all I need.
The thought barely has time to settle when something massive bolts out of the trees ahead. My heart leaps, and I slam on the brakes, the car skidding slightly as my tires scream against the pavement.
An enormous wolf stands in the middle of the road, its dark fur almost black against the mist-shrouded trees. It’s easily twice the size of any wolf I’ve seen in documentaries or zoos, but it’s not its size that freezes me. It’s the way it looks at me. Its amber eyes lock onto mine, and I swear there’s an almost human intelligence in them—sharp, assessing, and unnervingly unafraid.
For a moment, neither of us moves. My breath fogs the windshield as I sit frozen in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. The wolf tilts its head slightly, as if taking my measure, then takes a deliberate step back toward the woods. It pauses again, its gaze lingering like it’s trying to tell me something before melting into the shadows.
I stay there for what feels like an eternity, staring at the empty road, my heart pounding like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. When I finally exhale, the sound is shaky, even to my own ears. I’ve seen plenty of wildlife, sure—but not like that. Never like that. I shake it off, pressing the gas and forcing myself forward.
The gas station is nearly empty when I pull up, the old pump clicking and rattling as I fill the tank. The sign above the station, Gus’s Garage, hangs crookedly, the paint faded and peeling. I glance toward the garage itself, where a wiry man in coveralls—Gus, I presume—leans against the door frame, a smudge of grease on his cheek and a permanent scowl etched into his face.
“Help you?” he calls, his voice rough, like a rusty saw making its way through a fallen tree.
“No, I just need gas,” I reply, twisting the cap back onto the tank. “I’m headed into town.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Shadow Hollow?”
I nod, tossing a twenty toward the office window. “Yeah. Just moving in.”
His scowl deepens, but he doesn’t say anything else. I can feel his gaze on me as I pull back onto the road, the memory of that look prickling my skin.
I pull into town and head toward the mercantile and post office, parking out in front. It’s a squat, mismatched building that somehow manages to look both charming and foreboding. A sign reading Shadow Hollow Mercantile & Post creaks as the wind nudges it, the sound like a faint groan. Inside, the smell of pine cleaner and cedar fills the air, and the shelves are stacked high with everything from canned goods to handmade candles.
Behind the counter, David Wannamaker—a sturdy, middle-aged man with a thick beard and an almost cartoonishly friendly demeanor—greets me with a wide smile. “Isabella Gordon, isn’t it? You were here for Arthur’s funeral, and he has a picture of the two of you at his place. I heard he left you his clinic and the mill house,” he says, his voice booming. “Thought you might be stopping by eventually.”
“Word travels fast,” I murmur, grabbing a basket. “I’m just here for some basics.”
“Basics, huh?” His grin doesn’t falter as he rings up a customer ahead of me. “Might need more than that, running Arthur’s clinic. You planning to stick around?”
I hesitate, feeling the gravity of his question. “For now.”
“Good,” he says, leaning on the counter. “Arthur was one of us. It’s good to know you’re keeping his legacy going.” His tone is warm, but there’s something beneath it—something guarded.
I pay quickly and leave, my bag of supplies heavier than I expected—mostly because Wannamaker kept adding things to my bag and refusing to charge me for them.
I step out of the mercantile, feeling the eyes of those over on the porch of the Moonlight Café on me, but I force myself to walk steadily, head held high. The cold air bites at my cheeks as I load my supplies into the Jeep.
The café sits across the street, its porch lined with chairs and tables that look like they’ve been there since the town was founded. A group of locals—Dorothy Canning among them—are gathered, their voices low but carrying enough for me to catch the occasional word—my name among them. I know the sound of gossip when I hear it.
“Didn’t think she’d actually come back,” one of them says, their tone hushed but pointed.
“Running that clinic alone?” another voice scoffs. “Bet it won’t last a month.”
Dorothy shushes them, her voice firm. “Arthur trusted her. That’s good enough for me.”
The truth is, I’m not entirely sure I belong here. Shadow Hollow feels like it’s holding its breath, watching, waiting for me to prove myself—or fail spectacularly. But as I glance back toward the forest, the image of that wolf flashes in my mind again, its amber eyes burning into me.
It feels as if the people of Shadow Hollow don’t want me here… as if they are hiding something. Whether they like it or not, I’m going to find out what that is.
I pull into the driveway of the Silver Creek Veterinary Clinic just as the last rays of daylight disappear behind the jagged Cascade peaks. The building looms before me, a familiar silhouette against the deepening twilight. The faded sign creaks on rusty hinges, its chipped paint spelling out Silver Creek Veterinary Clinic in blocky, weathered letters. It seems every sign except that of the bakery and café are in need of repair.
As I step out of my Jeep, the air is sharp with the scent of the mountains and the trees all around me. My breath puffs in front of me, vanishing into the cold night. The place is just as Arthur always described it and as I remember it from the funeral—a little worn, a little rough around the edges, but comforting in a way that only something loved and lived in can be.
Arthur’s clinic. The keys feel heavy in my hand as I unlock the front door and step inside. The familiar scent of antiseptic and cedarwood washes over me, mixed with something faintly sweet, like the apple candles Arthur used to burn in the waiting room during the fall. The reception area looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here—worn leather chairs, a cluttered desk, a stack of dog-eared magazines no one ever reads—it feels like Arthur might walk through the door, a coffee mug in hand, smiling his warm, knowing smile.
But reality settles over me all too quickly, too heavily, and I know better.
I run my fingers along the edge of the counter, my throat tightening. “You didn’t just drop dead,” I whisper into the stillness. “Not you.” Arthur was too sharp, too stubborn, and too alive for his death to make sense. An accident? A heart attack? It doesn’t add up.
The clinic seems to agree. The shadows stretch deeper in the corners, the faint creak of the floorboards under my feet sounding like protests. I move into the back, past the exam rooms, and into Arthur’s old office. His scent still lingers faintly here—cedarwood, coffee, and the faint tang of the aftershave he always wore. The desk is neat, papers stacked precisely, but there’s a worn spot on the leather chair where I imagine his elbow must have rested.
I sink into the chair, my hands brushing the edge of the desk, and memories flood in—Arthur teaching me to set a broken paw, his gruff encouragement as I fumbled with a syringe, his laughter as he regaled me with stories of his antics as a child in Shadow Hollow.
“You left too many questions, Arthur,” I murmur. “And I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”
The knock at the front door startles me, the sound echoing through the quiet clinic. My pulse jumps, and I’m already halfway to the reception area when the door creaks open, revealing Sheriff Edmund Barnes. His broad shoulders nearly fill the doorway, his bear-like presence as solid as I remember. He steps inside, his hat in one hand, his eyes sharp and unreadable under the fluorescent lights.
“Sheriff Barnes,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “What brings you by?”
He nods toward the clinic, his tone casual but deliberate. “Heard you were back. Thought I’d stop by, see how you’re settling in.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. I’m not sure I believe him. “Well, I just got here. I’m still trying to figure it out. Not really sure what I’m going to do, For now, I need to go through Arthur’s things.”
His eyes narrow, but he seems to realize it, changes his expression and chuckles softly, but the sound doesn’t ring true. “Shadow Hollow’s got a way of keeping folks on their toes.”
There’s a pause, the kind that stretches too long, and I decide to push. “I don’t know that I believe Arthur died of natural causes.”
“So, I’ve heard,” he says levelly.
“I’d like to hear your thoughts on that. Arthur considered you a friend, but you don’t seem concerned about his sudden death.”
He and everybody else in town might as well know how I feel.
The sheriff’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his tone neutral. “We’ve been over this when you were here for the funeral, Bella. It was natural causes. His heart gave out.” There’s a pause and his expression softens. “And I was his friend.”
“Were you?” I counter, my voice sharper than I intend. “Arthur was healthier than most men half his age. He hiked every weekend. He...”
“Bella.” He holds up a hand, his voice firm but not unkind. “Sometimes these things just happen. You don’t have to like it, but that doesn’t mean there’s more to it.”
His deflection feels deliberate, and my frustration bubbles over. “What aren’t you telling me, Sheriff? Because everyone in this town seems awfully quick to write off what happened, but I’m not buying it.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, something flickers there—an unease, a hesitation. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. He places his hat back on his head, his stance shifting as if to close the conversation.
“Shadow Hollow’s a small town,” he says evenly. “People talk. You’re going to hear a lot of things, not all of them true. My advice? Focus on the clinic—either to get it reopened or to sell it. Arthur would want that.”
And with that, he turns and walks out, leaving me standing in the empty reception area with more questions than answers.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet feels louder than ever. I glance back toward Arthur’s office, unease prickling the back of my neck. Something doesn’t sit right with me—something about the sheriff’s carefully measured words, the way he avoided looking directly at me. He knows more than he’s saying. They all do.
As I lock the door, I can’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—is watching. The dark forest looms on the edge of the property, its shadows deeper than they should be. I think I see something move—a flash of amber eyes glowing in the distance.
The wolf.
My breath catches, but when I blink, the eyes are gone.
Shadow Hollow isn’t just a small town. It’s a secret, and it’s pulling me in deeper with every step I take.