Noelle shook her head. “No. But if her cat tries anything, Iwillretaliate.”
“She’ll respect that,” I said, grinning. “They have kind of a détente. Mutual war crimes and occasional snuggles.”
Noelle actually laughed at that—low and brief. She sobered quick, though, chewing on her lip.
“You sure she doesn’t mind?” she asked.
“She wouldn’t’ve said yes if she did. Delilah has strong boundaries and zero filter—you’ll know if she changes her mind. She’s good people.”
Noelle nodded, eyes flicking back toward Milo. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Areyougood people?”
I blinked.
“I try to be.”
She held my gaze for a beat, then nodded once. “Okay.”
A few minutes later, I watched her walk away—measured steps, spine straight, duffel slung across her shoulder. Milo sat next to me, still as a statue, tracking her until she disappeared down the path toward the square.
“She’s gonna be a handful,” I murmured.
Milo thumped his tail once, like he agreed.
But he didn’t move.
Just stayed there beside me, staring at the place where she’d gone, like he knew—same as I did—that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be simple.
Because Willow Grove didn’t just strand people for no reason…and I had this deep, unsettling feeling that the reason was me.
CHAPTER 3
Noelle
I was never aloneat night.
I hadn’t been since I was a little kid—sitting in the window of my mom’s trailer, knees tucked to my chest, watching lightning dance across the Ouachita Mountains. The sky would go electric white, then crash back into darkness, and I’d know it was out there.
The Shadow Painter.
A strange shape I’d once seen in the treeline—black against black—etched in a single flash of lightning. I knew, with the unshakable certainty only a child can hold, that it had wings. Claws. And blue, blue eyes that never blinked.
Even surrounded by people, I could feel it—always. Stalking my every step. Watching me. Waiting for the next disaster to strike.
Tonight wasn’t any different.
I’d only left Beau’s shop a few minutes ago, but I was already regretting not taking his offer of a ride. Main Street was still alive with festival noise—laughter echoing off brick buildings, the occasional burst of fiddle music drifting from a storefront, porch lights glowing warmagainst the creeping dark—but I felt lonely in a way that had nothing to do with being alone. The air was damp, heavy with the ghost of last night’s rain. Fallen leaves stuck to the sidewalk, slick and coppery. My sneakers squelched faintly with every step. Somewhere behind me, a screen door creaked open and slammed shut, followed by the squeal of tires on wet gravel. It made my shoulders hitch up tight around my ears.
It wasn’t cold, not exactly—but the breeze cut sharp through the humidity, the kind that prickled against the back of your neck like a warning.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Nothing but long shadows stretching between the buildings, puddles catching streetlight like dirty coins.
The library was just ahead, tucked between the post office and an antique shop. Its old brick facade was half-covered in ivy and lit by a single yellow porch light, a simple wooden sign reading “Library” swaying gently over the door. It looked more like a chapel than a municipal institution, with arched windows, a carved wooden door, and a tower up top that I assumed had to be this Delilah person’s apartment.
