“But you didn’t hear this from us,” she added in a hushed voice, “or he’ll confiscate our Sudoku grids.”
I cut my run short, cooling down with a slow walk past the strip of shops on Main.
I peek inside Fenton’s Books and spot Ann-Sabrina behind the counter, dressed in full emerald-and-gold regalia like she just stepped out of a fantasy court. She’s wearing a tiara. Could be fake, could be real, you never know with her.
“Hi Xaden, you’re all sweaty,” she says, fanning herself with a paperback.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, running my fingers through my damp hair.
She just giggles. “Don’t be sorry.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Would you like to accompany me to The Annual Fae Summit and Live Action Role-Play Picnic next month?”
“I probably shouldn’t. Considering the only word I understood was ‘picnic’,” I say, rubbing my neck.
Ann-Sabrina squeals with laughter as if I was joking.“I was just pulling your leg, I already have a date. Rhysand. Not his real name, obviously. It’s Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald Smith. But you should totally come. There’s archery, and swords… which reminds me. Are you available for a hit job?”
I blink. “What kind of hit job?”
Her eyes narrow. “Willard’s been threatening to review my event permits. Every summer he does this. Just strolls in here, makes little comments about fire codes and safety inspections. Like my fake swords are some kind of public menace.”
“That’s—”
“Devastating,” she fills in on my behalf. “So, I was thinking… you and Willard, a duel at the summit. Real swords. An unfortunate accident.”
I keep my face neutral. “That’s not really my area.”
“Fine, be boring,” she sighs. Then she perks up. “Would you mind posing for me in front of the Shadow Daddy altar? For my social media? It could bring a swarm of new customers in.”
“That’s not really my area, either,” I say, half-exasperated, half-amused.
Stepping back out into the sunlight, I shake my head.
This is just another dot in the same pattern: people keeping their heads down, adjusting their lives, all so Willard can keep his boots clean.
If I’m going to take Willard down, I need something that won’t sound like a joke in a courtroom.
I go to Earl’s next. He opens the door halfway and immediately blanches.
“Did Cole tell you about the pictures?” he gasps. “Please don’t hurt me — I have a Finnish pen pal! Technically, we’ve advanced to Zoom. We’re Zooming now!”
“Earl,” I say, already regretting this.
“I mean it! Maija is right there on the screen!” He points frantically toward a cluttered table. “She’s a witness!”
“Hello, Xaden,” says a calm, amused voice. On the laptop, a woman in her forties studies me with interest.
“Why does your Zoom pal know my name?” I ask.
“Because I know everything,” she replies, accent faint but the smugness universal. “The town eye candy. In Finland, it would be a curse. A pretty face does not bring porridge to the table.”
Earl squeaks. “Maija, that’s inappropriate! Also, what about my pretty face?”
“Don’t worry. You look like you can provide porridge,” Maija replies evenly. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Earl. Can we talk about Willard?”
He lets out a brittle laugh. “Who? Never heard of him!”
“Sheriff Hugh Willard. Who treats your bakery like his personal corner office.”
Earl freezes.“I have nothing to say about Sheriff Willard,” he blurts. “Except that he’s an upstanding, fair, and, uh, honorable man who absolutely does not—”
