Chapter 22
Megan
I’ve got a lot to think about. A lot to process.
Owen’s mom—Annabeth—is not what I expected.
With a name like that, I pictured something dainty. A soft-spoken southern belle who said things like “bless your heart” while passive-aggressively judging your whole life.
Nope.
Annabeth Randall is a full-blooded, no-nonsense, bologna-frying, fiercely loyal She-Wolf who stares down chaos like it personally offended her family tree.
She makes eye contact like a challenge and asks questions you know she already has the answers to.
And honestly? I kinda respect the hell out of it.
She’s protective. Intense. Sharp as hell.
And she loves her son like breathing.
Which is actually something I can get behind.
Because so do I.
Reminds me of my own mother—God help us all. That woman has been trying to marry me off since I got my first apartment.
She tells me I’m married to my job at least once a month and routinely laments that she’ll never have grandbabies to spoil.
Now I’m suddenly wondering how she’d feel about grandpups.
Whoa.
Okay.
That came out of left field.
Pull it together, DiNapoli.
After we finish the bologna sandwiches—which, by the way, are delicious and absolutely hit the spot after a long night of ghost theories and near-apocalyptic planning—Owen begrudgingly leans over and kisses his Mama’s cheek.
It’s sweet, even if he rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t strain something.
Annabeth turns her gaze on me as I gather my phone and jacket, and she gives me that look again. The one that says I see you, girl, and I don’t miss a damn thing.
“Well,” she says, dabbing her hands on a towel, “you let me know when you decide, missy.”
I pause mid-step, blinking. “Decide what?”
She smirks. “If you’re tough enough for my boy.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
No words come out.
And she just smiles like a woman who’s already won the argument.
Owen leaves a trail of heat and tension in his wake, and I follow it outside, heart thudding with the weight of everything I don’t know how to say.
He’s standing by the cruiser, arms crossed, brow furrowed, jaw tight. Stewing.
“Hey,” I say gently. “What did she say to you? Are you okay?”
But he doesn’t get the chance to answer.
Because right then, his radio crackles to life with static and urgency.
“Sheriff, we’ve got movement near the mansion. It’s, it’s not normal. You need to see this.”
At the same time, his phone buzzes. And then mine does, too.
I glance at the screen. It’s a text from Preacher and Esmerelda.
EMERGENCY. Come now. Graveyard. Something’s rising.
My heart drops.
“Uh oh,” I breathe, meeting Owen’s eyes.
He nods once, grim.
Looks like the shit has officially hit the supernatural fan.