Chapter 3
I’m going to be honest—Farrowville, West Virginia, is not my idea of a good time. Not that I expect investigations to take me to amazing places. But…
Look, it would be amazing if more witches and magical creatures did their crimes in nicer locales. That’s all I’m saying. Like, Hawaii. Are there no witches who want to commit evil acts on the beach in Hawaii? Because that would be awesome.
Although I guess I’m lucky that I’ve been given this chance at all. Cressida would really have preferred to fire me, but instead I get to be a part of this incredibly important operation.
And not just a part. Pretty much the part.
I’m on my own in Farrowville.
Except, of course, for the pig.
Or rather, the pig shifter I’ll be partnering with for the next few days. The one I’m meeting for lunch at what appears to be the only place to get prepared food in town.
Farrowville seems to be mostly a collection of strip malls thrown wherever developers managed to talk farmers out of their land.
So I drive past a handful of fields—for corn?
cows? I have no idea—and then past a strip mall with a smoke shop, sad-looking nail salon, and a title attorney’s office, and I do that pretty much over and over again until I reach what passes for a downtown.
It comprises a diner, a hotel, a rundown bar named Marcy’s, a gift shop that looks like it sells exclusively pig-related merch, a teeny-tiny jail, and a park, over the entrance of which hangs a sign that reads, “North Mountain Pig Show: July 1-3.” In the distance, behind a sputtering fountain that’s clearly seen better days, is a massive white show barn.
Well, at least the show is close to my hotel.
I pull into a parking spot along Main Street and climb out of the car, stretching my back to get rid of the kinks I’ve developed on the five-hour drive and to give myself a chance to surreptitiously get the lay of the land.
It would be phenomenal if The Witch just happened to be strolling down the sidewalk right now and I saw her and despite having no idea what she looks like, some instinct inside me just knew it was her and I managed to take her by surprise and arrest her without incident five minutes after arriving in town, and she’s all, “Drat! If only the MBI had sent a less skilled, less awesome agent,” and Cressida would be like, “OMG, Jensen! You have saved the day and probably should get a promotion,” and—
Jensen! Get your head in the game!
Right. I pull my purse from the car—for this operation, I went with a big khaki canvas bag with a little silver horseshoe dangling from the strap—and slip off my sunglasses. From now on, I’m no longer Olive Jensen, MBI agent.
I’m Sally Conway, pig enthusiast and first-time pig handler.
I make my way down the sidewalk and push open the door to the diner with as much excitement as I can muster. I’m here for the pig show! I can’t wait to…um…something-something-something with my pig!
I’m here early, and I’m about to ask the hostess for a table for two when I hear someone snapping their fingers. “Hey! Over here!”
Glancing around, I see a man with messy dark hair and piercing blue eyes waving at me from a corner booth.
Oh. Wow. I don’t know why I was expecting him to look more…piggish.
“I’m meeting someone,” I say to the hostess.
“Lucky you,” she says, her eyes fixed on the man in the booth.
Lucky me indeed.
I walk over to the booth and slide in, although it takes me three tries before I’m able to wedge my giant bag into the seat beside me. The man—Grayson—watches me with one raised eyebrow.
“Nice bag,” he says once I finish getting settled and turn to him. “Very practical.”
“It holds a lot,” I say, feeling a touch defensive. “Plus, it’s what my character would carry.”
His other eyebrow lifts now. “Your character?”
“You know. My cover story? I’m Sally Conway.
I’m from Chincoteague, Virginia, and pigs were my favorite animal growing up despite all the pony stuff in town.
I majored in marketing at Virginia Commonwealth University and lived in Richmond for a few years before I moved out to the country with a guy I was engaged to with plans to start a hobby farm and show pigs.
We broke things off after a few months, but just because the relationship didn’t work out didn’t mean the dream died and—”
Grayson holds up one hand. “You made all of that stuff up for this assignment?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” he says slowly.
Well, this is off to a great start. I’m pretty sure my temporary partner thinks I’m crazy. Which, maybe I am a little invested in the details, but it’s the details that sell the story.
Jensen! What have I said about your tendency to overthink?
“That it’s pointless at best and a danger at worst,” I mutter to myself.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud. I feel my cheeks flush, and I quickly grab my menu to distract him from, you know, my general chaotic self. “What looks good here?” I ask, my voice just slightly too loud.
“What doesn’t? Everything here is delish.
” Our waitress appears as if from nowhere, leaning one hip against Grayson’s side of the booth and smiling down at us with lips coated in enough strawberry lip gloss I can smell it from where I sit.
A thick blond curl falls perfectly across her forehead.
“I’m Sheila, and I’ll be taking care of you today.
Are y’all ready to order, or do you need more time to look at the menu? ”
“I’m ready to order,” Grayson says, his voice rising slightly at the end in a wordless question to me.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I say. “I’ll have the BLT on wheat bread, please.”
Across from me, Grayson clears his throat. Aggressively.
Oh, right. The whole bacon thing.
“Um, actually. No. Instead of the BLT, I’ll take the…” I scan the menu frantically. “Ooh. The Monte Cristo sounds perfect.”
But that earns me another frowning throat clear. Because of course—ham.
“Wait. No, not that.” I set the menu down. “Chef’s salad?” I say tentatively, looking at Grayson.
He reaches across the table and taps his finger on the description of the chef’s salad.
More ham.
Man, pigs and diner food, huh?
“You know what? I’ll just take a garden salad.
No meat, please.” It’s not what either Olive or Sally would choose for lunch, and I’m going to be starving long before dinner, but I’m too flustered to bother looking at the menu any longer.
I’m sure there’s plenty of other meat options, but for all I know his best friend is a cow shifter and he’ll be mortally offended if I order the cheeseburger.
“I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich, please,” Grayson says as he hands his menu to Sheila. “And could you tell the chef the lady has a shellfish allergy? Just so they know to avoid cross-contamination.”
Sheila beams at him for really no reason at all, which I’m sure is not an uncommon occurrence. With those cheekbones, I imagine a lot of women beam at him. “Absolutely, sugar.” She bustles away.
“How do you know I’m allergic to shellfish?”
“I read your file before I got here.” He carefully unrolls the napkin from around his silverware and spreads it across his lap. “You’re not the only one who does their homework before an undercover operation.”
I shove my bag a little farther into the booth and scootch in a bit more. There’s something about this guy that sets my teeth on edge even though pretty much all he’s done so far is know I can’t eat shrimp. “Have you ever been on an undercover operation before?”
“This is my first.”
“Because it’s not like you’re actually law enforcement, right? You’re a medical examiner?”
His chin jerks up sharply. “I hear an implied ‘just’ before ‘medical examiner.’”
“I mean, you hang out in the morgue while we go out and hunt down the bad guys. It’s important work, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not actually law enforcement work.”
I have to admit that I’d expected him to be a little pig-like even in his human form.
Not just in looks, but in mannerisms—always in motion, grubbing around for food or information or whatever floated his boat.
But Grayson is almost unnaturally still as he absorbs what I just said.
Finally, a small movement—his Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows.
“I would argue that medical examiners are law enforcement-adjacent,” he says.
“And it’s not like you have a lot of options, do you? ”
For a moment, I’m sure he’s making a joke. “Options? Of course I have options. I could just use, you know, an actual pig. I work just fine on my own.”
That eyebrow of his is really getting a workout. Up, down, Up, down. It’s up again now. “Given what I’ve read in your file, it seems like maybe your boss doesn’t agree with you.”
Now it’s my turn to go still. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on now, Agent Jensen. You graduated top of your class from West Virginia University and blew everybody away in the MBI training program. I think you’re smart enough to know why Captain Caine doesn’t trust you to handle this alone.”
Fuzzy black spots of rage dance before my eyes, and I squeeze my rolled silverware in my hands to tamp down any verbal reaction. Cressida told me to work with this guy, so I have no choice but to find a way to tolerate him.
This is your last chance, Jensen. Don’t screw this up.
That said, I have a feeling Sally wouldn’t put up with this sitting down.
“Hey, Sheila?” I call, not taking my eyes off Grayson until our waitress appears beside our booth, her gaze darting between us with the kind of delight I used to see in my grandmother when she watched her soaps. “Could I get some bacon bits for that salad?”
“Absolutely, hon,” Sheila says. “I’ll go tell them to throw some on.”
“A lot. Please.”
Grayson leans back against the booth, eyebrows down for the moment. “Very mature.”
“Very delicious, you mean.”
It’s not terribly busy in the diner, so it seems like only a minute later, Sheila is back with our food. She sets the salad—generously covered in bacon bits—down in front of me and the grilled chicken sandwich in front of Grayson. “Enjoy,” she says.
“So no bacon, but it’s fine to eat chicken?” I ask, picking up my fork.
“Have you met a chicken? They are vicious, vicious birds.”
“I saw a video of a chicken purring because it was swaddled after a bath,” I say. I stab a chunk of lettuce with my fork, making sure to get some bacon bits, and take a bite.
Nope. Even with the bacon bits, you just can’t make your mouth believe a salad is the same as a BLT sandwich. And it’s really just a deconstructed BLT! There’s lettuce, there’s tomato, there’s croutons, and there’s bacon crumbles.
And yet…it’s a mouthful of sadness.
“Individual chickens do not represent chickens as a whole. They’re mean.” He bites into his sandwich, chewing slowly.
“Excuse me if I don’t agree with you on the qualities of various barnyard animals.” I poke around in my salad looking for one of the handful of cherry tomatoes. “Although I suppose you do have more experience in that arena than I do.”
“Cute.” He takes another bite, and I almost wish he chewed with his mouth open so I could think to myself, “Ew, he’s gross.” But he keeps his mouth charmingly, annoyingly closed. “I’ve never heard that before.”
He’s wearing a dark blue T-shirt that clings to what I have to imagine is an incredibly muscular chest. It’s pretty much at eye level for me, so I’m forced to either stare at his pecs or turn my head to look out the window.
Which I’m going to do.
Any second now.
“How’s your salad?” he asks, finishing off his sandwich.
“So much better with the bacon,” I say. “Like, super amazing.”
He wipes his mouth with his napkin and signals to Sheila. “That’s vegan, just so you know.”
I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth. “It’s bacon.”
“It’s bacon bits. And while there are a handful of brands that use actual bacon, most of them are vegan.” He gestures at my bowl. “Judging by the color, you definitely have vegan bacon bits.”
He grins, and my heart sinks.
Great. The man has a dimple when he smiles. Of course he would.
Jensen, nobody cares what you think about his goddess-damned dimple.
Sheila arrives, and Grayson hands her a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he says. Then, sliding out of the booth, he says to me, “We’re meeting with that consultant at two today. Don’t be late.”
With a dimple-laced smile at our waitress, he’s gone, the bells above the door ringing merrily as he walks out.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Sheila says, watching him through the front window. “He wouldn’t have to worry about me being late if I was meeting up with him.”
“I wouldn’t get too excited about that guy,” I say, stabbing a crouton with enough force that it shatters. “The man’s a pig.”
Sheila smiles knowingly and pats my shoulder. “The best-looking ones always are, hon.”