The client frowns, then clears his throat as if he has a question. He seems to think better of it and snaps his lips closed.Smart man.
Sheriff needs to learn to shut his mouth when I’m with a client.
I finish the line, clean the ink, wrap the arm, and send him out with my usual aftercare directions.
The door jingles shut.
Finally, quiet.
I stretch, then circle behind the counter, bracing both hands against the smooth wooden surface. Breathe through my teeth. Count back from ten.
Nothing helps.
The Rider’s tack scrapes against my ribs. The horse on my shoulder twitches like it wants to turn its head. Why today? Why now?
Movement outside catches my attention.
Through the front glass.
Bag slung on her shoulder, stuffed full of God only knows what. Black dress with a frilly white collar, hem short enough to show off shapely legs hidden by black netting. Tall black boots that lace up the front. Long hair lifting and swirling in the fog. She’s laughing to herself, some private joke. The sound doesn’t carry but my chest reacts anyway.
I don’t recognize her, but I’d bet my entire shop she’s the girl Sheriff Bertram warned me about.
She shakes her head. Takes a deep breath like she’s steeling herself for a monumental task. Her gaze slides toward the front door.
Don’t come in here.
The bell jingles. Cold air follows her. She pauses and shoves the door closed with a harsh click.
Then she turns. Our eyes meet—hers a clear winter blue.
The curse stirs inside me, wide awake.
In here, she looks smaller than I expected—then again, everyone looks small next to me. The black velvet dress hides her curves, though not well enough to fool my eyes. A crow brooch glitters at her chest, black and silver catching the overhead lights.
“Hi.” Her lips twitch into a warm, almost shy smile. Pink, full. She blushes like she’s walked into a designer boutique she can’t afford instead of a prison built of ink, iron, and ghosts. “Are you the owner?”
My eyes drop to the crow brooch. Shiny and coy little bird—kind of like her.
I grunt. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Emery Corbin.” She sets her bag down on my counter with a clunk. “Investigative journalist. Or YouTube pest, depending on your perspective.”
Pest. Definitely a pest.I glare at her. “You’re the one here to mock the town.”
Her brows arch. “Mock? No. Investigate? Absolutely.”
Same thing.
“You sell a sort of folklore, right?” she asks, sweeping a hand at the walls. “Tattoos are basically permanent souvenirs. Stories under the skin. I thought maybe you’d talk to me about the local legends. I’m particularly interested in the Ironbound Rider and the Weeping Widow stories.”
“No.”
She blinks. “No?”
“That’s what I said.”
Her laugh is quick, surprised. Cuts right through me. “You don’t like interviews?”
