Tallulah angry is a category five weather event. All sharp edges and fast words. She’ll hate me on principle just for existing near her autonomy.
It doesn’t change what needs doing.
When Shiloh’s stalker situation blew up a few years ago, Tallulah was the one feeding Jack and Brodie intel at three in the morning. She was also the last one to lock her own door. She thinks because she’s the one behind the screens, the one seeingpatterns and not the star of the show, so to speak, that she’s safe from being a statistic.
That’s the lie every smart person tells themselves right before the world proves otherwise.
Dawn starts bleeding into the sky by the time I peel off the highway toward Lucy Falls. The air gets thinner, colder, the way it does when you start trading city smog for river mist.
The sign appears around a bend, small and unassuming:
WELCOME TO LUCY FALLS
POP. 4,812
ENJOY THE VIEW
I snort.
“Sure,” I tell it. “Let’s enjoy the view.”
The town is still half-asleep when I roll down Main. A few shop lights blink on as I drive past. Karla’s donut shop is already busy, a handful of early risers hunched against the cold with coffee in hand.
I park a block away from Tallulah’s building and let the engine idle for a second while I study the street.
Two cruisers from the Sheriff’s department sit outside the building. One is parked at the corner, the other across from her building. Good coverage. Jack’s not screwing around.
I pull the SUV into a space behind one of the cruisers and kill the engine.
When I step out, the cold hits like a slap. Mountain air, wet and sharp, bites through my jacket. I breathe it in, let it clear whatever’s left of Philly out of my lungs.
Across the street, a deputy in a heavy coat clocks me immediately. Her hand hovers near her belt, then relaxes when she recognizes me. We met briefly when I came down last time, but I don’t for the life of me remember her name. She nods once. I nod back.
Behind her, up on the second floor of a narrow brick building, a set of windows glows weakly. One of them has a sad little twig of a tree visible through the glass. Lights on it blink unevenly, like they’re not sure if they’re allowed to be festive.
Even from here, I can see the outline of a clear glass ornament near the bottom.
That’s her place.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder and start walking toward it.
Kael told me not to look at her like anything but a job.
Too late, I think, and push through the front door anyway.
FIVE
TWIGGY
Thehummingbirdisstillswinging.
It’s quieter about it now, a slow, lazy arc at the bottom of my Charlie Brown tree, but every time the heater kicks on, the warm air nudges it just enough to make it move.
I’ve been watching it for a while now.
The sky outside my window is the pale gray-blue that means sunrise in Lucy Falls. Streetlights still glow. Frost feathers the edges of the glass. Jack Brady’s cruiser is idling at the curb, exhaust curling up in white puffs.
He’s been out there all night.
