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She stiffens. “For what purpose?”

“I’d, uh, love to learn more about the families that originally settled here and their relatives. For a…book. A book idea I have. That has a small town in it. And families. A historical romance book.”

Years of lying to my mother, and this is what I come up with under pressure.

She sets down her pen and again purses her lips. “All records are at town hall.”

“Thank you.”

Some of the other obituaries have dates. Some don’t.

I start two columns in my notebook with names and dates, and where there aren’t any, I mark them with an asterisk. By the fifteenth name, I’ve got half a dozen with no dates, and they all belong to surnames from the bicentennial photo. I take some screenshots to email to myself and lean back in my chair. I have a thread, and no idea what to pull next.

Roslyn clears her throat and I look up. A patent green purse sits on her desk as she buttons up a thick sheepskin coat over her cardigan. She looks pointedly at the clock on the wall. I hastily tidy the space and return everything to where it should be.

“Thank you.” I’m threading my arms through my peacoat as I trail Roslyn out the front door. “May I come back again?”

She locks up with a big brass key and tucks it into her purse with gloved hands.

“If the office is open, you may.” She stalks down the sidewalk. “Goodnight, Miss Ashford.”

Chapter 18

Nick

I shouldn’t have taken her there.

The outcrop on the mountain is mine. It’s the place I go to feel small in a way that releases tension like a pressure valve. I’ve never taken anyone up there. Not since I moved home, not since before that either.

After the whole thing with Chad, I wanted to show her there was still beauty and wonder in the world, even with people like him in it. That she was safe to open back up, that she didn’t have to stay folded and hidden because of some idiot with a camera. And, maybe, just a little, I wanted her to see something true about me since I can’t share the biggest parts.

What I hadn’t been ready for was her walking to the edge on her own. She’s afraid of heights. She came anyway, and put her hand on my arm to keep herself there, and left it a lot longer than she needed to.

She could’ve stepped back. She didn’t. Nothing under her but twenty feet of rock, and instead of looking down, she kept her eyes on the sky the whole time.

And for one stupid, weightless moment, I let myself have it.

I don’t get to do that.

The day I became Guardian was the day I swore I’d never ask anyone to promise their freedom to Ravenslight Creek like I had.

It was an easy promise to make when I no longer had anyone to share anything with.

I leave the truck in the garage and run the back roads that weave through the woods around town searching for that mystery scent. Thirty miles out, I catch the tail of it. Through bare branches and boggy ground all the way to a stream until it disappears into the icy water. By dawn, I’m tired and muddy, and have nothing to show for my effort except a story Constantin won’t take seriously.

It’s been less than a week since I took Ellery to the ledge. She changes up her routine and starts coming to the office instead of waiting outside the cafe for me to pick her up.

“You’re early.” Which is what I say every time.

“You’re observant.” Which is what she says every time. She loads the basket into the back and dusts off her coat. “Did you know it’s snowing? The nice stuff, not the clumps. I got to enjoy it for the whole walk over. And you weren’t there to ruin it, so it was lovely.”

“There’s still time.”

She talks more than I do, which is not much of an achievement. I just like to listen. She asks questions, dozens of them, curious about everything from who was the town’s first mayor to annual snowfall, and waits for every answer.

One night, I bring her coffee in a thermal mug—half-and-half, two sugars, a shot of caramel syrup, so sweet it’s barely coffee—and nestle it into the cup holder between our seats. She doesn’t even ask if it’s for her. Takes one sip and melts into the upholstery.

Now, I make it every time, and she doesn’t ask why, or how I know.