Skylar looks at him with obvious relief. “Connor. Thank God. She’s asking about the town. About the wolves.” She drops her voice even lower. “She doesn’t know.”
Connor’s face goes carefully blank. “I see.”
“Someone needs to explain things to her. I thought Patricia already had, or I never would have said anything. I feel terrible—”
“It’s fine, Skylar. I’ll handle it. Why don’t you take your coffee and give us a few minutes?”
Skylar nods quickly, grabs her cup, and practically flees the break room. I watch her go with mounting confusion and a creeping sense of dread.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, turning to face Connor. “Why is everyone acting like there’s some big secret?”
“Come with me,” he requests. “We need to talk, and this isn’t the place for it.”
“I have patients—”
“Your next appointment isn’t for an hour. I checked.” He holds open the break room door and gestures toward the hallway. “Please, Fern. This is important.”
Against my better judgment, I follow him out of the medical center and into the cool afternoon. He leads me around the side of the building to a small garden with a wooden bench beneath an old oak tree. It’s private here, sheltered from the main street by a tall hedge. The kind of place you’d go if you didn’t want to be overheard.
“Sit down,” Connor instructs.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Trust me. You’re going to want to sit for this.”
Something in his tone makes me obey. I lower myself onto the bench and watch as he paces in front of me, running a hand through his dark hair. He looks uncomfortable, which doesn’t match the confident security officer I’ve come to expect. Whatever he’s about to tell me, he’s not looking forward to it.
“What I’m about to tell you is going to sound insane,” he begins. “I need you to hear me out before you react. Can you do that?”
“That depends entirely on what you’re about to tell me.”
“Silvercreek isn’t a normal town. The people who live here, most of them anyway, they’re not entirely human.”
I wait for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
“What do you mean, not entirely human?”
“I mean exactly what it sounds like.” He crouches down so we’re at eye level, his blue gaze steady on mine. “I assume you have patients who have been talking about wolves and shifting and animals inside them? They’re not speaking metaphorically. They’re describing their actual lived experience.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Connor, that’s…” I search for the right word. “That’s impossible. That’s literally impossible.”
“It’s not. Silvercreek is pack territory. Has been for generations. The people here, most of us, we’re werewolves. We can shift between human and wolf forms. It’s part of who we are, part of what we’ve always been.”
I stare at him, waiting for the mask to crack. For him to laugh and tell me this is some elaborate joke the town plays on newcomers. But his face remains serious, almost apologetic.
“Werewolves aren’t real,” I manage. “They’re myths. Stories. Things from horror movies and bad Halloween costumes.”
“I can prove it.” He holds up his hand, palm facing me. “Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Before I can ask what he means, his fingers begin to change. The nails thicken and elongate into dark, curved claws. Coarse black fur sprouts across the back of his hand, spreading up toward his wrist. The bones seem to shift beneath the skin as his knuckles grow more pronounced, more animal.
I scramble backward on the bench, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“It’s okay,” Connor assures me, even as his hand continues to look less and less human. “I have complete control. This is just a partial shift.”
