5. Alaric
ALARIC
The aftermath of a scone is not as tidy as you’d think. Poppy seeds find their way into the lines of my palm, and buttery residue softens the calluses on my thumbs.
I wander the block, giving the impression of idly killing time, but my mind is anything but idle.
Longfellow, Birdie.
She’s not what I was promised. Not the cowering hysteric or erratic disaster with “delicate sensibilities” Leland Brooks described during our first meeting at a coffeehouse in Thistlebrook.
If anything, she’s a shuttered house with too few lights on—or else she’s wired the alarms to misfire.
I’m practiced at reading people, but with Birdie, the longer I look, the more aware I become of my own blind spots.
I need a new angle.
Cassian, as much as it pains me, is sometimes the sharpest tool in the shed.
At the Blackthorn Bay Police Substation, nothing says fraternal law enforcement like the overwhelming scent of burnt coffee and the way the front door whines when I enter.
Cass is hunched behind the reception desk, up to his knuckles in an oversized crossword puzzle. Every square is inked with varying degrees of contempt for language, rules, and whoever devised the clues.
He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. I’m the only person who comes in before noon without being summoned or arrested.
“You’re out early,” he grunts, circling an answer with enough fury to nearly tear the paper. “Didn’t figure you for an AM stalker.”
“You wound me.” I drop into the vinyl visitor chair, which still squeaks from last week’s run-in with a local shapeshifter. “I was conducting surveillance. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
He finally looks up, all wolf eyes and expressive eyebrows, delighted to have an audience for his irritation.
“Spying on Button Cottage again?”
“Observing.”
“The entire town knows you’re there. Mrs. Blood and the squirrels have an informal betting pool on what happens next.”
“I was perfectly concealed.”
“You were standing behind a tree half your width.”
“A poor detective blames his vegetation.”
Cassian stares at me.
I let the silence stand.
Eventually, his mouth twitches.
“She doesn’t match the profile,” I say. “At all. Either Brooks lied, or he’s a spectacularly unreliable narrator.”
The amusement leaves Cassian’s face.
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “When you looked into him, what did you find?”
“Nothing.” Cass glances toward the two-way mirror, which is mostly for show, then tosses his pen onto the desk.
“That’s the part that bothers me. No sealed juvenile record.
No old traffic tickets. Not even an unpaid parking fine.
It’s like he came out of the womb fully formed and ready for business. ”
“People don’t come out that perfect.”
“Exactly.”
I pick up the stress ball from his desk and roll it between my palms. “There’s always something. A juvie prank. A late library return. An unfortunate haircut preserved in a yearbook.”
“Unless someone went to a lot of trouble to bleach the record.”
There’s a note of camaraderie in his voice that might be touching if the room didn’t smell faintly of dog biscuits.
I set down the stress ball and thumb the edge of one of Cassian’s business cards.
“Brooks told me Birdie lost her mind. Said she became irrational, impulsive, impossible to reason with.” I flick the card between my fingers. “What I saw this morning was a woman who’s been running out of options for so long, she’s forgotten what it feels like to stand still.”
I remember the way she squared her jaw when I mentioned Leland. The way she watched me—not merely for what I might do, but for the danger that might be standing just behind me.
“She’s hiding from him, Cass. The only question is why.”
He studies me for a moment before letting his incisors show.
“You know you’re supposed to bring her back, not date her, right?”
I snort. “There’s zero chemistry.”
“Of course.”
“I looked her directly in the eye, and I’m fairly certain I repulsed her.”
Cassian leans back in his chair. “That’s never happened to you before?”
“Not without considerable effort.”
“Must be unsettling.”
“I’m managing.”
He scratches the back of his neck with one pointed claw. “Maybe she’s just a damsel who decided to stop being in distress. Who says she needs rescuing at all?”
I consider that, though I’m not sure I agree. People who don’t need help rarely surround themselves with wards powerful enough to fold roads in half.
Cass gets up, pours a glug of possibly ancient coffee into a chipped mug, and pushes it across the desk with the solemnity of a divorce lawyer.
“Talk to the people who knew them before she disappeared,” he says. “You’re good at hearing what gets left unsaid. Find a florist, an old roommate, someone with a reason to spill.”
I take the mug, sip once, and grimace.
“You know I can’t taste this, right?”
“You’re welcome.”
He returns to his crossword, but I catch the way his shoulders relax. That’s as close to affection as either of us is willing to get before lunch.
Outside, I pull up the case file on my phone and fake a call to Leland for the benefit of anyone watching.
“Progress is being made,” I say to his voicemail. “I’ll be in touch.”
Technically true.
Just not in the way he expects.
My first stop is Belladonna Blooms, tucked between Blackthorn Hardware and the Sparkle Suds Laundromat. The shop belongs to Lavinia Graves, the local florist and owner of a sixth sense for overhearing heartbreak.
The bell above the door gives a mournful jingle as I step inside.
Lavinia is arranging dusty-pink roses in a black ceramic vase. She doesn’t glance up.
“You’re here about the runaway bride.”
I pause beside a display of carnivorous succulents.
“I was going to pretend an interest in peonies first.”
“You don’t have the complexion for peonies.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
She adjusts one of the roses, then beckons me closer with a crooked finger.
“What do you want to know?”
“Why Birdie Longfellow ran.”
Lavinia’s hands still.
Only for a moment.
Then she resumes trimming the stems.
“Everyone said they were perfect together.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Leland sent her flowers every week. Expensive ones. Never the same arrangement twice.” Her mouth tightens. “People thought it was romantic.”
“You didn’t?”
“I’m a florist, Alaric. I know the difference between flowers given with love and flowers sent to remind someone they’ve been watched.”
Interesting.
I move closer to the counter. “Did Birdie say that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“But she spoke to you.”
Lavinia releases a dry laugh that rustles like dead leaves.
“Nobody tells the florist they’re unhappy. They discuss color palettes and table settings. They ask whether gardenias wilt under pressure.”
“And what did Birdie ask?”
Her gaze lifts to mine.
“She asked which flowers look best at funerals.”
The joke waiting on my tongue dies before it reaches the air.
Lavinia sets down her shears.
“She wasn’t excited about the wedding. She was resigned to it. There’s a difference, though most people don’t notice until the bride runs.”
“What was she afraid of?”
“I don’t know. Birdie guarded every word like Leland had already charged her interest on it.” Lavinia turns the vase a quarter turn. “But whenever his name came up, she looked toward the nearest exit.”
That matches the woman outside Hex & Honey far more closely than anything Leland told me.
“Did she mention the Forbidden Forest?”
“No, but Leland did.”
I go still. “When?”
“After she disappeared. He came in asking whether she’d said anything to me. He was polite at first.”
“And then?”
“He stopped being polite.”
Her expression darkens, though her hands remain steady.
“He didn’t touch me, if that’s what you’re wondering. Men like Leland rarely dirty their own hands. He merely explained how unfortunate it would be if my lease changed or my suppliers stopped returning my calls.”
“He threatened your business.”
“He called it a conversation.”
Of course he did.
“Did you tell him anything?”
“I told him Birdie once mentioned wanting to live somewhere no one could make choices for her.”
“That’s all?”
Lavinia smiles faintly. “I may also have suggested the Forbidden Forest eats men in expensive shoes.”
I glance down at my own.
“They’re reinforced.”
“I’m sure that will comfort your grieving family.”
I reach for a small succulent with purple-tipped leaves.
“You’re stealing that,” she says.
“I’m preserving evidence.”
“That’ll be eight dollars.”
I leave ten on the counter.
The afternoon has softened by the time I step back outside, but my thoughts have sharpened.
Leland described a fiancée who became unstable without warning.
Lavinia described a woman who had been searching for an exit long before she ran.
One of them is lying.
As I return to my car, I catch myself looking toward the road leading to Button Cottage.
I don’t drive there.
I have professional standards.
Instead, I take a completely necessary route past the Blackthorn Animal Haven, which happens to add only twelve minutes and three unnecessary turns to my journey home.
The shelter sits near the edge of town in a converted farmhouse surrounded by crooked fencing and hand-painted signs. I slow as I pass, telling myself I’m checking for traffic.
Then I see her.
Birdie is kneeling in the grass beside an elderly dachshund with silver whiskers and tired eyes. She adjusts the little dog’s harness, speaking too softly for me to hear. Whatever she says earns a tentative wag.
The dachshund leans into her.
Birdie smiles.
Not the careful, restrained curve she gave me outside the bakery. This smile transforms her. It loosens something in her shoulders and turns her face toward the light.
She gathers the dog into her arms with infinite care.
Leland Brooks described a woman coming apart at the seams.
The woman cradling that old dog looks peaceful.
I watch a moment longer than necessary.
Then the dachshund licks her chin, and Birdie laughs.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Every instinct I had screamed the same thing.
I wasn't investigating Birdie Longfellow anymore.
I was investigating Leland Brooks.