Her nose crinkled, the first unguarded expression she’d shown. “That depends on the chili. Where I’m from, we put beans in ours.”
“Careful.” I slowed for a jaywalking calico. “Talk like that’ll get you drawn and quartered in most circles where you’re heading.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but the shadow of one.
“So, how was the ride down here?”
“Two buses.” She picked at her cuticles. “Seat cushions smelled like regret and corn nuts.”
“And Texas called because…?”
Her fingers stilled. “Fiancé’s funeral.” The words came too quick, rehearsed. “Car accident. Six months back.”
Liar. Grief has a sound—wet earth over raw pine. This was porcelain shards in my molars.
“Condolences.” I downshifted past a tractor, tastebuds flooding with the saccharine rot of deception. Beneath it… something feral. Musk buried under layers of human stink. Not quite wolf. Not quite not.
“Was the wedding…” I inhaled subtly through parted lips, “… close?”
Her laugh shattered like safety glass. “Too close. He preferred brunettes. Hence…” A brittle gesture toward her dye job.
The steering wheel creaked under my grip. Every instinct snarled—she smelled of wrongness wrapped in softness.Trapped rabbits and attic dust. But when the wind whipped through her hair, I caught the ghost of pack bonds. Frayed threads of belonging.
A pickup hauling horses passed on the right. Her eyes held a distant longing as she followed it until it was out of sight.
“Are you sure you don’t ride?” I gave her an incredulous look.
Her smirk was telling. “Pretty positive.” The dashboard clock ticked off seven seconds before she unspooled the truth. “Charlie hated horses.” Her thumb rubbed circles over the tote’s strap. “Allergic.”
Another lie coated in fact. My canines ached.
The truck tires crunched over gravel as we turned onto Magnolia Street. “Pearl’s does decent chicken-fried steak,” I said, nodding toward the neon-lit bar. “But avoid the coleslaw unless you enjoy yours tangy and sweet.”
Julia’s chuckle sounded hoarse and deep. I don’t think she laughed much in her world. “Noted.” Her fingers danced along the edge of the seatbelt, tracing the stitching with military precision.
I cataloged the motion—too controlled for casual fidgeting, too rhythmic for nerves. Ballet training? Combat drills? The torn cuticle on her index finger suggested habitual picking. “Library’s two blocks east,” I continued. “Park committee keeps flower boxes looking like Martha Stewart’s personal hell.”
“Chrysanthemums?” she guessed, leaning toward the passenger window.
“Marigolds. Blood orange ones that reek of fertilizer and misplaced ambition.”
Her shoulders relaxed a quarter-inch. Good.
The apartment over the garage behind Ma’s house loomed ahead, just inside pack territory. We drove through the gates and I gave a wave to one of the new prospects. I’ll have to give instructions to leave well enough alone. Ma’s house sat about a block past the front entrance. Its new cedar shakes glowed amber in the late afternoon glare. I killed the engine, watching her eyestrack the security features—steel-reinforced door, double-pane windows, motion lights disguised as garage sconces.
“Fire escape’s out back,” I said, rounding the truck. “Leads to roof access. Not that you’ll need it.”
She paused mid-step, head tilting toward the neighboring oak. “Is that—?”
“Wisteria. Should bloom purple come spring.” I jingled the keys louder than necessary, letting their metallic song announce our approach. “Ma had the floors redone in hickory. Claims it’s scratch-resistant.”
The lie tasted like nickel on my tongue. I’d overseen every renovation myself—chosen the wood for its warmth under bare feet, installed the Shaker-style pegs so she’d have somewhere to hang that damn scarf.
Julia trudged up the outside stairs, lugging that bag that was almost as big as she was. Then she crossed the threshold with the reverence of someone entering a cathedral. Her knuckles went white around the strap of that damn bag as she took in the open living space. Early evening sunlight fractured through the leaded glass transom, painting her black-dyed hair with unexpected cobalt highlights.
“Refrigerator’s propane,” I said, trailing a finger along the butcher block counter. “Stove too. Power goes out most winters—you won’t starve.”
She set her bag down with excessive care, as though disarming explosives. When her fingers brushed the satin finish on the cabinets, I caught a slight bruise on her wrist.
