Page 58 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

"Murderer."

"Witch."

"Monster."

My jaw tightens. The words aren't new. The hatred behind them is.

Someone points toward me. "They found her cloak."

The crowd surges, agreement spreading instantly, as though everyone had been waiting for permission. A fisherman shouts from the back.

"Hang her."

The words cut through everything. The crowd falls quiet, only for a moment, then murmurs begin. Some agreeing. Some hesitating.

My stomach twists. I look around at familiar faces—people I've helped, people whose boats I've guided home, people whose wards I've repaired, people whose children wave at me from the harbor. Now they look at me as though I'm something dangerous. Something less than human.

A hand brushes mine. Finn, and the simple contact steadies me.

Before I can say anything, a man pushes forward, his anger practically radiating from him. "We know what you are."

He steps between us, the movement immediate, protective, instinctive. The man doesn't yield and neither does the crowd.

With a furious rumble, Finn growls. The sound rips through the street, deep and powerful and wild. Every conversation dies. The crowd freezes, and several people physically step backward, fear replacing confidence almost instantly.

His gaze sweeps across them, cold and fierce. "Back away."

Nobody argues. Nobody challenges him. The silence stretches, and then Finn takes a single step forward. The crowd retreats, one by one, until a path opens before us. Only then does he turn back toward me.

"Come on."

I nod, because I don't trust myself to speak. We leave the crowd behind, and the shouting doesn't follow. Only silence.

The cloak rests on a wooden crate near the shoreline. Several council guards stand nearby, watching, waiting. The moment I see it, my chest tightens. I know that cloak. I know every stitch, every thread, every repair.

I move closer, slowly, as though approaching a ghost. Finn remains beside me, close enough to touch, close enough to remind me I'm not imagining this.

I pick up the fabric. The material feels familiar beneath my fingers, painfully familiar. I turn back the collar, and my initials stare back at me..

My breath catches. "It's mine."

The admission barely rises above a whisper. Finn studies my expression.

"You never told anyone it disappeared."

I gesture. "No." The answer comes immediately, because I didn't. I searched quietly, assumed I misplaced it, and eventually stopped looking. The memory makes me feel sick. Someone took it, kept it, then placed it here.

I lower the cloak slowly. The ocean crashes against the shore behind us, the sound feeling distant, muted. Everything feels muted. The town hates me, the evidence points toward me, and every answer creates another accusation. The exhaustion lies heavily in my heart.

Maybe this is the point where I leave. The thought arrives quietly, not dramatic, not emotional. Practical. Moonhaven would be safer without me. The town would calm down. The accusations would stop.

I stare out across the water. "I should go."

The words leave me.

Finn doesn't hesitate. "No."

I blink. He doesn't even look surprised, only irritated, as though the suggestion itself offends him.