Eleven people. Out of a town that she’d served for twenty years.
Beth Morrison sat in the back row with her arms crossed, flanked by three members of her werewolf pack. She didn’t look friendly. She looked like someone who’d come to be angry and wanted a target.
Rosie Whitlock, seventeen and terrified, huddled near the door. Her mother hadn’t let her come alone, but her mother hadn’t come either. She’d sent Rosie with a note:We can’t be involved. Don’t ask again.
The Castellan twins sat together, the wife gripping her husband’s hand with the rigid posture of someone ready to bolt.Jeremy Hollins was in the corner, hollowed out, dark circles beneath his eyes. His wolf had come out three nights running. The stabilizer was failing.
And Margaret Thornfield sat in the front row, pearl necklace and cardigan, smiling. Just smiling. Her presence said everything her mouth didn’t need to.
Marcus leaned against the back wall, one hand pressed to his side where the bandage darkened slowly beneath his shirt. He’d insisted on coming. Hazel had insisted he sit down. Neither of them had won that argument.
“Thank you for coming,” Hazel began, and immediately hated how small her voice sounded in the half-empty room.
“Get to the point.” Beth Morrison’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. “Some of us have businesses to run. Or we did, before you decided to poke Viktor Blackwood in the eye and bring his whole operation down on our heads.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Not loud. Grudging. The sound of people who’d been thinking the same thing but hadn’t wanted to say it first.
“The murraue attacks—” Hazel started.
“Didn’t start until you witnessed that murder,” Beth interrupted. “We were fine, Hazel. Supernatural politics, sure. The Blackwoods skimming off the top, yeah. But people slept at night. Kids didn’t scream themselves hoarse. Werewolves didn’t lose control of their wolves.” She stood, and the room contracted around her anger. “You want to be a hero? Fine. But you dragged the rest of us into your war.”
“It wasn’t her war.” Marcus’s voice from the back, quiet and precise. “Viktor Blackwood murdered Tobias Ashford. That’s everyone’s war.”
“Nobody here knew Tobias Ashford.” Beth didn’t look at him. “We knew Hazel. We trusted Hazel. And now Hazel’s shop is a pile of ash and my pack can’t sleep.”
The room was very quiet. Margaret Thornfield’s smile widened by a fraction.
Hazel opened her mouth to respond, but the words dried up. Because Beth wasn’t wrong. Not entirely. The Blackwoods had operated in Willowbrook for thirty years, and the town had survived, not happily, not freely, but it had survived. Hazel’s testimony had turned a cold war into a hot one, and the people in this room were the collateral damage.
“I’m not going to apologize for witnessing a murder,” Hazel said finally. “But I am sorry for what it’s cost you.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix Jeremy’s wolf,” Beth said. “Sorry doesn’t un-burn your shop.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
No one spoke. Margaret Thornfield uncrossed and re-crossed her ankles.
“Well.” Margaret’s voice was silk over steel. “I think we’ve all said what needs to be said. Perhaps Miss Wickwood should consider what’s truly best for Willowbrook. Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is step aside.”
She stood, smoothed her cardigan, and walked toward the door. Three people stood to follow her: Rosie Whitlock, eyes on the floor; one of the Castellan twins, pulling his wife by the elbow; and a woman Hazel didn’t recognize, clutching her purse like a shield.
The door closed behind them. Seven people remained.
Hazel foundMrs. Henderson in the kitchen, standing over the industrial coffee maker like she’d forgotten how it worked. The old woman’s hands were shaking badly enough that coffee grounds spilled across the counter in a dark constellation.
“Mrs. Henderson.”
She flinched. Turned. The face that looked back at Hazel was ten years older than it had been a month ago: sunken eyes, cracked lips, the particular devastation of someone who’d been carrying a secret so heavy it had broken her spine.
“Hazel.” Mrs. Henderson’s voice was barely a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”
“I know about the leak.”
The coffee grounds scattered as Mrs. Henderson’s hand jerked. “You?—”
“I didn’t know it was you.” Hazel’s voice was flat. Professional. The voice she used when a potion had gone wrong and she needed to diagnose the failure without emotion. “But someone’s been feeding the Blackwoods our safe house locations. Our supply routes. Our daily schedules. Marcus’s firm traced the information breach to someone with access to my client records. That narrows the list.”
Mrs. Henderson sank into a chair. She was crying, had been crying, Hazel realized, for days or weeks, the kind of tears that had worn permanent tracks into a person’s face.
