7. Alaric
ALARIC
It’s the first one I’ve ever been allowed to have.
The sentence roosts on the back of my tongue for the rest of the day. I’m too old for sentimental paralysis, but not immune to the kind of ache that creeps along my scapula and makes typing reports feel like penance.
Back in my small office, I stare at the bottle sketches I doodled in the margins of my notebook—copious, dramatic, and not remotely medical—and wonder if this is how people accidentally become decent.
They let in a little guilt, then a lot, and before you know it, you’re eating cinnamon scones on a park bench and writing checks to the local cat rescue.
But that’s not why people hire me.
People hire me for black-bag jobs—for tracking the untraceable and intimidating the otherwise unrufflable. Leland hired me, specifically, to bring back a "difficult" ex-fiancée.
But I'm starting to rebel against his vocabulary.
Birdie Longfellow isn't difficult.
She's tired. Clever. And so full of wariness it changes the shape of a room when she walks into it.
I stack Leland's file on my desk—well, technically it's a file box now, brimming with everything from property records to wax-sealed correspondence. The man is nothing if not thorough...and terrifyingly analog. His handwriting looks like it was designed in a lab to induce migraines.
I run a finger along the folder's edge and reread the note I'd scribbled on the inside cover.
She was supposed to love me.
Underlined twice.
The rest of the file is a case study in the kind of grandeur that can only be assembled by someone with disposable income and, quite possibly, a god complex.
Leland's grievances, cataloged in looping script:
· Unreasonable dietary restrictions (refusal to attend steakhouse events)
· Chronic lateness for functions of public importance (ambiguous avoidance)
· Uncontrolled emotional outbursts (see Christmas party, incident at his parents' home)
· Evasive about finances, uninterested in hobbies, mutters to herself, and inexplicably left engagement brunch before speeches
He never called her Birdie.
Only she.
Only the girl.
Only future Mrs. Brooks when he was feeling especially unhinged.
I pull the photograph clipped to the first page.
Birdie stands at some cursed society gala, her hair shellacked into submission, her smile stretched just this side of panic. But it's her eyes that hold me.
Too direct for the room.
They have the look of someone trying to dig an escape tunnel with a teaspoon.
I stare at the picture longer than I should.
My phone buzzes.
Cassian's name flashes across the screen, accompanied by a grainy selfie of him holding two chili cheese dogs overhead like championship trophies.
I ignore the photo.
The reminder, however, is useful.
I was supposed to meet him at the Grey Ghost half an hour ago.
He's already halfway through his second beer when I arrive.
"You look like hell," he says without preamble.
"That's because I haven't slept."
I slide the file box beneath the table and steal one of his fries.
He snorts.
"Leland again?"
"Birdie."
The smile slips from his face.
"That's a first. You always call them by their last name."
"Not this time."
I steal another fry.
"You ever get the feeling the job is starting to feel less like a job?"
"No," he says. "Because I have boundaries. Also, I'm not a masochist."
He points a fry at me.
"What's eating you?"
I've been turning the answer over in my head all morning, testing the shape of it before saying it out loud.
"Leland's entire case is built on grievances that boil down to 'she didn't do what I wanted.' He never describes her as a person. It's all about what she failed to deliver."
Cassian studies me over the rim of his beer.
"Controlling people never think they're controlling. They call it management. Or protection. It never sounds sinister when you're telling yourself the story."
"Exactly."
I reach for my glass and somehow miss it entirely, my hand landing flat on the table instead.
"She's scared of him, Cass. You can feel it. And she's got that... way about her."
I search for the right words.
"Like she's constantly threading a needle between survival and collapse."
He gives me a sideways look that lands somewhere between concern and sympathy.
"So why not bring her in? Collect the check. Wash your hands of the whole thing."
“Oh, so we’re doing the tough love routine?” I ask, my voice lighter than I feel. “What do you think I am, a criminal?”
Cassian laughs, nearly inhales a chunk of chili cheese dog.
“No. I think you’re a glutton for punishment.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “But you’re also pragmatic. If I handed you that file without names attached, you’d see both sides.”
“I did.” I lean back in my chair. “A parking ticket. A library fine. She skipped an engagement brunch.” I shrug. “Her only real crime was refusing to bend over backward for him.”
Cassian's expression sobers.
“If you go against Brooks, he'll blackball you from every contract in Thistlebrook.”
I already know.
Leland doesn't believe in failure.
Only creative retribution.
“Noted.” I rest a hand on the file box. “But I'm not bringing her in.”
He studies me.
“Not unless she wants to come,” I finish.
Silence settles between us.
Finally, Cassian asks, “Do you want help?”
“No.” I finish the last of my beer. “But if you hear of an opening for a professional dog walker, let me know.”
He barks out a laugh.
“Tell Birdie good luck from me.”
“Why?”
“Because she's going to need it.”
When I get home, I don't bother turning on the lights.
I sit in the dark with a protein shake, the only audience my own shadow and the echo of Birdie's voice.
No one's ever let me have a pet.
Sleep proves optimistic.
Instead, I keep digging.
One court filing becomes another.
A dissolved business partnership.
A quietly settled lawsuit.
Three former associates who all describe Leland differently, yet somehow use the same words.
Demanding.
Impossible.
Always right.
Nothing illegal.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a trail of people who eventually walked away.
The pattern feels familiar.
Everyone leaves eventually.
Birdie just happened to leave before the wedding.
Somewhere in the growing stack of paperwork, I find a note written in Birdie's hand.
Unsigned.
Scrawled across the back of an old café menu.
Sorry about the mess.
I want to be the kind of person who leaves things tidy.
I read it three times.
By morning, my office resembles the home of a conspiracy theorist with excellent penmanship.
Sticky notes.
Maps.
Red string.
Enough evidence to convince myself of almost anything.
One smiley face scribbled beside an address leads me back to Button Cottage.
The privacy wards are old.
The neighbors are worse.
One anthropomorphic beehive.
One banshee with an unreasonable grudge against mornings.
My plan, therefore, is to do absolutely nothing.
For now.
Leland's check sits untouched in my account.
I place a hold on it.
Instead, I stop at the pet supply store.
Five minutes later I'm standing in front of an entire wall devoted to squeaky toys, wondering when my life took such a dramatic turn.
The cashier—a shapeshifter wearing an aggressively cheerful name tag—spots the duck in my hand.
“For a dachshund?”
“How did you know?”
“They're the only dogs who like these.”
She pauses.
“Either that or they all share a blood feud with rubber ducks.”
I buy two.
One for Barnaby.
One for what I decide to label emergency morale.
Birdie is sitting on the porch when I pull up, a mug in one hand and Barnaby sprawled across her lap.
For a brief moment they blink into the morning sun with matching expressions.
Like two vampires reluctantly considering daylight.
I stop at the gate.
No closer.
She notices me almost immediately.
For a split second, fear flashes across her face.
Then recognition softens it into caution.
“I brought your witness a gift.”
I hold up the squeaky duck.
“For professional purposes.”
Her gaze drops to the toy.
“Professional?”
“I needed to confirm he survived his first night.”
A smile threatens the corners of her mouth.
“Is this another bribe?”
“Only if you want it to be.”
I set the duck on the bottom step.
Barnaby absolutely loses his mind.
He launches himself off Birdie's lap, snatches the duck by the neck, and proceeds to shake it with the determination of a tiny undertaker settling an old score.
Birdie laughs.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
Really laughs.
The sound catches me completely off guard.
“Thank you,” she says once Barnaby pauses long enough to squeak his prize.
I lean against the fence, careful not to brush the thorny edge of her privacy ward.
“I'm not here for Leland.”
“I figured.”
“He's a creep.”
“I know.”
“And his taste in coffee is unforgivable.”
That earns me another smile.
“Then why are you here?”
Because your library record says you check out poetry.
Because you always overtip the baristas.
Because you rescued an old dog no one else wanted.
Because somewhere along the way I stopped seeing you as a case.
Instead, I say, “I think you deserve to decide who gets to bother you.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“I hope you're not expecting an invitation inside.”
“I'm not.”
“Or my undying gratitude.”
“I'd settle for polite indifference.”
“I've heard all about how you charm the women of Blackthorn.”
I smile.
“My reputation is wildly exaggerated.”
She considers that.
“I can see that.”
Another beat passes.
“I don't really understand what all the fuss is about.”
That was...
Unexpected.
I wasn't particularly vain.
But statistically speaking, this was a first.
“Ouch.”
She shrugs.
“I prefer honest.”
“I'll try to recover.”
She doesn't invite me inside.
But she doesn't retreat, either.
We stand there watching Barnaby enthusiastically dismantle the squeaky duck.
For thirty peaceful seconds, I forget I've ever hunted anything more dangerous than a missing dog.
Maybe there's a better way to do this job.
Maybe not.
I'd settle for sleeping through the night.
I'd settle for knowing I did the right thing.
I glance back toward the porch.
Birdie is kneeling beside Barnaby while he proudly murders the duck with the determination of a dog half his age.
She catches me looking.
For the first time...
...she doesn't look afraid.
Just cautious.
It's progress.
Not much.
But enough.
I lift a hand.
She returns the gesture.
Then I head for the car.
I've got work to do.
And for the first time in my career...
The client wasn't the person I intended to help.