On instinct, I pull my camera out of my bag and film some background footage—the statue, the hill, the headstones with the mausoleum looming behind them.
My voice is shakier than I’d prefer.
“This is the Sterling plot,” I murmur on camera, feeling like a traitor. “So far, I’ve discovered one of the earliest Sterlings to settle in Crowsbridge Hollow had at least three wives. And six babies who didn’t make it to their first birthday. I don’t know what this means yet, but it feels significant.”
I pause the recording. What am I supposed to do with this? It’s tragic, sure. But am I uncovering a mystery or turning folklore into something darker than it needs to be?
A gust of wind slaps my cheeks and my eyes water. I rub my hands together, cursing that I forgot gloves again. My gaze snags on my nails. Jagged, chipped black polish.
I huff out a breath that’s close to nervous laughter. I may not be able to solvethismystery, but I passed a nail salon when I left the inn earlier.
“Icanfix my nails,” I whisper. Maybe focusing on something mundane, like a manicure, will help my brain work through what I’ve learned.
Or if nothing else, I’d at least like to look nice when I meet Declan later.
I take one last look at the Sterling graves, then at the Widow watching over them. There’s more research to be done. Much more.
“I’m not done yet,” I whisper under my breath. “I’ll be back.”
Above me, a crow cries, harsh like it’s punctuating a sentence. Maybe it heard my promise and plans to hold me to it. Or it’s trying to warn me to abandon this project.
I tuck my camera away and start down the hill, but I can’t shake the feeling the Widow’s hollow eyes follow me all the way to the cemetery gates.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Declan
My burning needto see Emery again dials down to a slow simmer while I work. It never really goes away. But it’s manageable. Barely.
The shop hums around me—Lucy’s angst-filled playlist, buzzing machines, the occasional ring of the phone. Normally, it’s all background noise, but today I pick up on everything, waiting to hear Emery’s voice.
Focus, fucker.
I finish up the shading on the wolf skull I’m inking into this guy’s shoulder. He’s had about enough for the day and can’t stop flinching every two seconds. Christ, I inked a set of angel wings on a young woman’s back this morning and she didn’t complain or fidget once.
When I’m done, I give him the aftercare instructions and walk him to the front counter where Lucy can finish the transaction. I’m all peopled out and have no more small talk left to give.
Except for Emery.Although, nothing we talk about feels small. Hell, I’d give anything to listen to her tell me interesting facts about crows right now.
I check my watch and then my phone.
No more messages from Emery.
“Deck!” Fingers snap in front of my face. “Declan? Big D, you in there?” Lucy shouts.
I flick my gaze to the ceiling, pray for patience, and aim my glare at her. “What?”
She nods to my client. “He wants to book another appointment.”
I force a polite, customer service smile onto my face—although it damn near fractures my cheekbones to do it—and flip through my calendar.
“How long are you in town?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ll come back whenever you’re available.” He tucks his chin. “You’re the only one doing my ink.”
A more genuine smile curves my lips. “Appreciate that. We’ve got the whole Season’s Creepings festival to get through,” I mutter, flicking through the pages of the calendar on the front desk. After I’m done with theSlayride, I want to take a few days off.
Maybe Emery will still be here.
