Numbers Man. Not Protector, huh? Penny must have kept that card close to her chest.
“That’s me,” I say evenly.
She grins, unbothered. “Don’t worry about the title, Numbers Man. She called me Chaos Coordinator once. Which is funny, because I coordinate things beautifully.” She laughs under her breath. “Until they collapse.”
Right on cue, one of her tote straps snaps. Notebooks scatter across the sidewalk. She kneels quickly, scooping them into a neat stack despite the chaos, muttering something about karma and fate having it out for her today. I doubt it was just karma or fate. Or just today.
I crouch and pick up a highlighter. Yellow.
She reaches for it at the same time. Our fingers brush. The touch is nothing, ordinary—but it jolts like static. Her hand is warm. Mine lingers a moment too long.
“Thanks,” she says, slipping it into a pouch already bulging with highlighters.
We load her mountain of bags into the trunk together. It takes a bit because Milly narrates the process like we’re hosting a game show. One bag is labeled “Critical Ops,” which is full of veterinary handbooks; another, labeled “Purely Boots.”
“Three pairs,” I note, tightening a strap.
“Variety is essential,” she counters with a shrug.
The hedgehog, Pumpernickel, puffs from his crate, apparently unimpressed.
By the time the trunk closes, the car sags a little under the weight. We slide inside, she’s juggling the crate on her lap, and I’m double-checking my laminated checklist.
She notices. “Is that laminated?”
“Yes.”
She laughs softly. “Penny wasn’t kidding. You really are the Numbers Man.”
Her tone is light, but it already feels like she knows me better than she thinks. I glance at the mirror, and that’s when I catch it:a black SUV, two cars back, idling where it doesn’t need to idle. My gut tightens. It pulled in behind us outside her place. Still here.
I keep my expression neutral, eyes on the road, and file it away for later.
Milly fusses with her playlist, the screen flashingAdventure Awaits: Volume 1.The first chords of some upbeat anthem fill the car as downtown Denver fades behind us.
“So,” she says brightly, “Everwood. Small town. Big sky. I’ve never been to Montana. Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen a goat?”
“Yes.”
“Do they really eat everything?”
“Yes.”
She beams, delighted by my monotone. She is definitely Penny’s relation—unfounded sense of optimism, bright and happy. A branch off the old tree.
The black SUV keeps pace with us as we head toward the airport. I grip the wheel, running silent calculations. Risk factors. Contingencies. Protecting Milly may not be on her list—but it’s on mine.
She leans back against the seat, humming along to her playlist, oblivious to the shadow following us.
For the first time since Penny’s letter was hand-delivered, I’m not entirely sure this mission is just about protecting her. Milly might have not only inherited a property, but Penny’s ghosts as well.
Chapter 3
The Not-So-Little Cabin in the Woods
