Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
ISABELLA
T he clinic is quiet, the low hum of the fluorescent lights above the exam room the only sound. I’m finishing up reorganizing the last of the medical supplies when the bell over the front door jingles. I glance up, expecting one of the locals with their farm animals or pets, but it’s Lucas. He’s carrying a dog—a small, white, scruffy mutt with matted fur.
“Hey,” he says, his easy smile firmly in place as he steps into the room. “Thought you might be able to help this guy. Found him limping near the trailhead by the creek.”
“Of course,” I say, pulling on a pair of gloves and gesturing to the exam table. “Put him up here.”
Lucas sets the dog down gently, and the animal whimpers, his big brown eyes glancing around nervously. I move slowly, speaking softly as I examine his leg. “It’s okay, buddy. We’ll take care of you.”
Lucas leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with a relaxed posture that somehow feels deliberate. “Figured if anyone could help, it’d be you. Word around town is the clinic’s finally back in business.”
I glance at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’m not exactly open for business as usual, but I want to be available if someone needs me. Word travels fast around here, doesn’t it?”
“You have no idea.”
The dog flinches as I probe a sore spot, drawing my focus back. “Looks like he’s got a sprain,” I say, grabbing a bandage. “Nothing too serious, but he’s probably been limping on it for a while.”
Lucas scratches the dog behind the ears, his touch light and reassuring. “You’ve got a good bedside manner,” he says. “Animals trust you. People too, I bet.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “I’m not sure everyone in this town would agree with you.”
“Give it time,” he says, his voice warm. “Shadow Hollow has a way of coming around. Eventually.”
There’s something in his tone—something genuine—that makes me pause. Ryder’s intensity always feels like a wall, impenetrable and unyielding, but Lucas is different. He’s open, easygoing, and somehow... disarming.
“Thanks for bringing him in,” I say, gently wrapping the dog’s leg. “Not everyone would go out of their way for a stray.”
“I can’t help it,” Lucas says with a grin. “I’ve got a soft spot for the underdog.”
We both chuckle, and the burden I've been carrying since I returned to Shadow Hollow feels lighter.
I get the dog settled in a crate with a supportive bandage, a snuggly blanket, some kibble and a bowl of water. Lucas lingers, leaning casually against the counter as I clean up.
“You’re really settling in here,” he says approvingly, but watching me closely. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s not your dog. As for settling in, I don’t know that I’d go that far, but I’m trying to,” I reply, glancing at him.
Lucas nods, his expression softening. “Arthur left big shoes to fill, but I think you’re the right person for the job.”
His words catch me off guard, and I pause, meeting his gaze. There’s no hidden agenda in his eyes, no walls like Ryder’s. Just honesty.
“I hope so,” I say quietly, then add, “He left me some interesting journals and papers.”
Lucas raises an eyebrow, his posture shifting slightly. “Interesting how?”
I hesitate, then reach for the folder I’ve been keeping Arthur’s loose notes in. “He documented injuries—animal attacks, mostly—that didn’t add up. Non-traditional wounds, oversized tracks, things that don’t match local wildlife.”
Lucas takes the folder, flipping through the pages. His easygoing demeanor falters, just for a second, replaced by something harder to read. “He wrote a lot,” he says, his voice carefully neutral.
“He did,” I reply, studying his reaction. “Does any of it seem... familiar to you?”
Lucas’s eyes flick up to meet mine, but he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sets the folder down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shadow Hollow’s always had its share of... unusual stories,” he says carefully. “But a lot of it is… oh hell, I was going to try to mislead you, but apparently big brother was far more forthcoming…”
“He was,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “He thought there was something more than just the usual shifters out there—something undiscovered.”
Lucas exhales, nodding. “He was right,” he says finally. “The Crimson Claw.”
“Do you think they killed him?”
“It doesn’t seem likely. Ryder has always believed something or someone else has been controlling them. The Claw are mutants, more brawn than brain.”
“If there’s something dangerous out there, don’t I have a right to know? Arthur thought it was important enough to investigate, and I believe it cost him his life.”
Lucas’s jaw tightens, and I wonder if he’s going to shut me out. But then he leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Arthur might’ve been onto something,” he admits, “but it also might have been something that wasn’t paranormal. There are people—groups—who don’t play by the rules. Illegal hunting, trafficking, harvesting old-growth timber, and worse. If Arthur got too close to any of that...”
The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and suffocating. “You don’t think he died of natural causes either, do you?”
Lucas doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes.
The air between us is thick with unspoken truths. Finally, I reach for Arthur’s notes, flipping to a page with sketches of oversized pawprints and detailed descriptions of injuries.
“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a note and a sketch of a deep gash on a deer carcass. “Arthur thought it looked like a wolf attack, but bigger. More violent.”
Lucas’s eyes narrow as he reads, his unease visibly deepening. “Mutants,” he mutters under his breath, so quiet I almost miss it.
“What?” I ask sharply.
“Nothing,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “Just a theory.”
But I don’t believe him, and suspicion twists in my chest. Lucas might be more open than Ryder, but he’s still holding back.
“Bella,” he says, his tone softer now. “Be careful with this. Arthur was a good man, but his curiosity might’ve put him in harm’s way. I don’t want the same thing happening to you.”
His concern is genuine, but it doesn’t quell the fire building inside me. “I can’t ignore this, Lucas,” I say firmly. “Arthur trusted me to carry on his work, and this is part of it. I owe it to him to figure out what’s going on.”
Lucas nods slowly, his gaze lingering on me. “Just promise me you’ll be smart about it,” he says. “And if you need help... you’ll ask for it. The pack might have turned their backs on your grandmother, but neither Ryder nor I would do that to you.”
The offer catches me off guard, and I see something in Lucas’s eyes—something earnest, maybe even protective.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, my resolve hardening.
As he leaves, the stray dog whimpers, and I go back to give him a cuddle. I glance back at Arthur’s notes. The pieces don’t fit together yet, but they’re beginning to form a picture—a picture of what, I’m not sure, but at least I know it’s a picture of something. And I have a sinking feeling that whatever’s out there, it’s more dangerous—and more connected to Arthur’s death—than I ever imagined.
The clinic is quiet except for the whirring of the centrifuge spinning a sample of blood I drew from the injured dog earlier. The mutt, now patched up and dozing on a blanket in his crate, whimpers softly in his sleep, his legs twitching like he’s chasing something in a dream. I should feel some sense of relief—the injury was manageable, the dog safe—but the nagging questions won’t let me rest.
I study the vial in my hand, holding it up to the light. The blood looks normal, but something about it is off. The chemical compound I detected during the initial test doesn’t make sense. It’s not something I’ve ever seen before in an animal’s bloodstream. The machine didn’t recognize it either, spitting back an error message that only added to my frustration.
“What the hell were you on to, Arthur?” I mutter under my breath.
The doorbell jingles, the sound cutting through the silence. I turn to see Dorothy stepping in, a small basket clutched in her hand. Her cheerful smile falters slightly when she sees the tension on my face.
“Bad time?” she asks, her tone gentle.
“No, just busy,” I say, forcing a smile. “What brings you by?”
She sets the basket on the counter, the smell of more fresh-baked muffins wafting out as she unties the corners of the cloth drawn over them. “Thought you could use a little pick-me-up,” she says. “Running this place on your own can’t be easy.”
I soften at her kindness, taking one of the muffins and biting into it. It’s still warm, the buttery sweetness melting on my tongue. “Thanks, Dorothy. I needed this more than I realized.”
She watches me, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “You’re doing good work here, Bella,” she says finally. “Arthur would be proud.”
Her words hit harder than I expect, and I have to clear my throat before responding. “I just hope I’m doing enough,” I say.
She looks as if she might say more, perhaps elaborate on our last discussion, but then she shuts down. Why can’t people in this town just talk straight without subterfuge and hidden meaning? I can’t help but wonder if she knows more than she’s letting on. Before I can press her, the bell jingles again, and Gus steps in, wiping his hands on a rag that’s already stained with grease.
“Good thing you dropped your Jeep off earlier in the day. I’ve got it running smoother than a fast-flowing river,” he says, giving me a nod. Then his eyes drift to the dog and the blood samples on the counter. “You’ve been busy.”
“Always,” I reply, glancing between him and Dorothy and moving the vials of blood behind the counter. There’s something grounding about having both of them here, like the clinic’s heartbeat is stronger with their presence, but at this point I don’t know who I can trust.
Gus scratches his chin, his gruff voice softer than usual. “Arthur thought the world of you, you know. Always said you were sharp. Brave, too.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, the weight of their support settling over me like a warm blanket. “I’m just trying to figure out what he was working on before... before he died.”
Dorothy and Gus exchange a look, one I can’t quite read.
“Bella, please be careful. Arthur wouldn’t have wanted you to risk your safety,” Dorothy says, her voice carrying a note of warning.
I nod, even though her words don’t make me feel any safer.
After they leave, Lucas wanders back in, his expression unusually serious. The easy charm he had earlier is gone, replaced by something more guarded.
“Promise me you’ll stay out of the woods,” he says abruptly.
I frown, crossing my arms. “What, you, too? Your brother seems to be something of a broken record on that subject. I’m not afraid of a few trees.”
“It’s not the trees,” Lucas says, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “It’s what’s in them. You’ve already read enough of Arthur’s notes to know something’s off, Bella. The Crimson Claw seems to be making inroads into our region as well as our territory and maybe even Shadow Hollow.”
“What about them?”
Lucas nods. “We’re not absolutely sure, but we believe they have been enhanced by or created in a lab, but we’re not sure by whom or why. What we do know is they are dangerous, and you’re putting yourself right in the middle of it.”
“Arthur wasn’t afraid,” I counter, meeting his gaze.
“Arthur’s dead,” Lucas snaps, his frustration bleeding through.
His words hit like a slap, but I don’t back down. “That’s exactly why I have to do this,” I say, my voice firm. “He was investigating something he felt was worth risking everything for. And if he thought it was worth it, then so do I.”
Lucas shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” I reply, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at my lips. “Lately by your brother.”
Lucas laughs. “Well, he may be an overbearing asshole, but he has this annoying habit of usually being right.” He shakes his head, but I see something that might pass for respect in his eyes as he steps back. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Of course,” I say, even though we both know it isn’t necessarily true.
As the door closes behind him, I head back into my lab and turn back to the microscope, the unusual chemical compound still weighing heavily on my mind. The clinic feels quieter now, the pressure from the day lingering in the air.
I flip through Arthur’s notes again, my fingers brushing over his sketches and scribbled observations. The pieces are starting to form a picture, but it’s incomplete, blurred at the edges.
Mutants. Illegal hunting. Experimental chemicals. None of it makes sense on its own, but together...
My resolve hardens as I close the notebook and set it aside. Whatever Arthur was chasing, whatever cost him his life—I won’t stop until I uncover the truth, even if it means putting myself in danger to do it.