10. Dark Times （Micah）

10

DARK TIMES (MICAH)

T hat man is definitely dead.

I sink down on one knee at the edge of a sharp drop-off, deep in the woods in the hills past the outskirts of town.

Grant, Lucas, and Henri lean over me, peering down the rocky cliff to the bottom.

There, the body of a man in his late twenties wearing jeans and hiking boots sprawls, broken on the rocks. His blood spatters the fallen leaves and dirt from where his head appears to have struck one of the larger boulders.

"Well," Grant drawls at my back. "This looks pretty open and shut. Just gotta get down there and get the poor guy into a bag."

"Does it?" That's all I say.

Lucas and Grant both let out exasperated sounds. They know that one simple question means this case will be more work than it's worth.

"Someone want to explain?" Henri looks confused.

I turn my head to the left, toward the peak of the high ground where we're clustered. We've kept ourselves to a very small area, stepping carefully so there's no disturbing the possible crime scene—like the uneven earth and blades of grass right where the cliff juts out to a little point.

Several overgrown tufts of grass look snapped in half by a boot. There's a chunk of dirt kicked away, exposing fresh soil and threads of grassy roots.

Also, more broken grass leading up to the edge.

Footsteps.

If I'm right, those footsteps belong to more than one person.

"The obvious answer is that he was hiking," I start slowly. "He didn't know the area or else he got too close to the edge and it broke off under his weight. He fell, and the rest is history."

"Don't, Micah. Don't even." Lucas groans. "Look, man, we know you think something else is up. C'mon, what's that bloodhound nose of yours telling you?"

"That if any of you boys move another inch, you might fuck up a crime scene."

I peer over my shoulder.

The crew freezes while Lucas gives me a dirty look, his green eyes piercing over his black beard. He's wearing it thicker these days with married life and all.

I smirk.

"Just stay away from the path leading up to the ledge," I say, bracing my hands against my thighs and pushing to my feet. "Doesn't look like there's anything else, though we should have a thorough look just in case. Someone might have dropped something."

Grant gives me a solemn look—his ordinary look, really—always so grave. "Stop going around in goddamn circles. Fill us in."

I circle around the team and stop just shy of a little divot in the earth, this churned-up grass in the shape of a heel.

"For starters, this wasn't made by a hiking boot," I tell them, pointing.

Suddenly, I've got a crowd gathered around me.

Three grown men the size of bears, practically tiptoeing like ballerinas to see what I'm looking at without stomping on anything crucial.

Henri frowns, crouching next to me, looking at the footprint.

"Don't quote me on this, mes amis ," he drawls in that thick Cajun accent. He's so bad we've started calling him Gambit lately. "Need to get a good look at the vic's shoe size, but I'd say this was a smaller foot. A loafer, maybe. No treads on the sole, half-moon heel."

"There's a pattern of steps overlapping his. Here, see the larger sections of crushed grass? That says more weight, deeper heel divots, then smaller steps, smaller feet, different shoe," I point out. "Somebody followed him. Their heel imprints don't fit inside his, so they weren't tracing his steps. But they were right on his ass. Their steps overlap, sometimes blur his. The second set of steps goes both ways—right to the ledge before they turn around and come back. The victim's, they don't."

Grant heaves out a long, rough sigh, dragging a hand over his bearish brown eyes. "Really? Do we really need another murder case?"

"We've got to earn our pay somehow, Captain," I answer dryly, though this isn't fucking funny at all.

It reeks to high heaven.

"You know, guys," Lucas says, "it's possible he was just here with someone. What if he fell, and the other person panicked and ran without reporting it? Might've been scared they'd be blamed for his death. People turn into idiots all the time."

"Maybe," Henri says. "But if someone was out hiking with him, they'd be wearing boots. This looks more like… dress shoes?"

Yeah, I think he's right.

There's a nagging suspicion teasing at me.

Dress shoes or loafers—or the severe church-style shoes of someone who dresses like she just stepped out of the year 1800.

Grant grunts. "We'll sort that out by working the scene. Let's start off by seeing if he's got any ID on him. He's definitely not a townie or anyone I recognize. So we'll find out who he is, where he came from, and see if we can track down anyone connected." He rubs a finger to the side of his nose, giving us all that baleful, stern Captain Faircross look. "Let's keep a lid on the murder talk for now until we can dig up more information."

Henri frowns, tapping a hand against his knee. "I dunno, Cap. I trust Micah's instincts on this. Man's got a nose like a wolf. Feral instincts, tracks like an animal."

"I don't know if that's a compliment," I mutter before Grant cuts us off with a sharp sound.

"Split up, you bozos. Work the scene, document evidence," he says. "Micah and Henri, head down the hill. I'll call in the paramedic team to get the body lifted, but do what you can to find the evidence. Photograph everything. Lucas and I will photograph the footprints up here."

"Yes, sir, Captain." I snap off a sardonic salute.

That just gets me an eyeroll. Henri grins, straightening and tossing his head, sending his long shag of brown hair flopping.

"C'mon, renard arctique ." Arctic fox . "Let's go find out who this guy is."

Shaking my head, I turn to follow Henri.

We pick our way around the main path up the slope and into the trees, toward where the ground slopes more gently to the bottom and we can skid through without too much effort. The guys always tease me for the way I analyze crime scenes, but right now it's really sticking with me.

Maybe because it's how Talia sees me, too.

The way she reacts like I'm an animal, dangerous and feral.

Last night, I almost fucking kissed her.

Blame it on the whiskey, sure.

But like hell I'll be my father, blaming every bad move on booze alone.

I know full well it wasn't the bottle.

Truth is, it took everything in my power not to fucking eat her whole when she showed up on my doorstep in that gauzy little dress that let me see the freckles on her shoulders, strewn around the soft curves of her tits. Every last dot made me want to bite her.

To taste her.

To sink my teeth in until she screams.

She looked so innocent. My own Little Red Riding Hood.

And I've never felt more like the big bad wolf.

I need to keep my hands to myself—because she is innocent, and the only thing I can do is taint her.

I'm terrible with fragile things.

Right now, I also need to keep my mind on the job, instead of thinking about this ache in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to go find her for no other reason than the fact that I can.

I know I can, and she'd just look at me with those wide blue eyes, like she sees something in me I can't see myself.

As we reach the bottom of the slope and break through the trees, we nearly trip over the victim's bag.

Looks like it went tumbling free as he fell and landed several feet away. I put down an evidence marker and leave it where it is until I can photograph it later.

We make our way to the fallen man, flanking him and avoiding the blood as we bend for a better look. Henri pulls several nitrile gloves from the breast pocket of his uniform, shakes them out, and offers me a pair.

"Thanks." I snap the gloves on and then carefully grip the man's chin. He's got sandy-brown hair and a scruffy hipster beard.

His eyes are wide open, pale brown.

There's a sort of quiet shock etched on his dead face. Like he was startled right before the lights went out.

I gently turn his head left and right.

There's a little stiffness.

"Rigor. He's been dead for a few hours, at least. No other signs of trauma. So the impact is definitely the cause of death."

I carefully settle his head back in the exact position where I found it, then fish my phone from my pocket and start snapping photos. Henri frowns.

"No bloating, not seeing any discoloration," he says quietly. "Damn, so when? Maybe this morning?"

"Late last night," I answer, carefully capturing his position and the blood spread with my phone. "There's dew on his skin. It hasn't rained, but there's liquid pooled in the corners of his eyelids and under his neck. Plus, the blood looks like it's been congealing for at least six hours."

"I will never get over how you notice things like that, mon ami ." Henri stares at me in awe.

"Check his clothes. If they're damp, you'll see I'm right."

Henri carefully pushes up the flap on the breast pocket of the man's red and black plaid flannel shirt. "Yep. Just a lil' wet, but there. Oh—" He whistles softly as he fishes a soft black leather billfold out of the victim's pocket. "What do we have here?"

He flips open the billfold. In the small laminated window, an ID peers out at us. He arches both brows and offers it to me.

I snag it with two fingers.

"Brian Newcomb of California," I rattle off. "Time to find out what Brian was doing in Redhaven so far from home."

It doesn't take long to track down Mr. Newcomb.

Within a couple hours, we've marked, photographed, and packed up the crime scene, transferring the body over to Raleigh's morgue and a proper workover by the Raleigh PD forensics team.

We don't have much bagged and tagged to enter into evidence except the backpack and billfold, and when we break everything down to catalogue what's inside, we just find a canteen, a change of clothes, a pop-up tent, emergency knife and rope, flashlight—the usual camping supplies, along with his phone.

It's his phone that leads us to pay dirt.

It takes our dispatch officer, Mallory, two seconds to get past his lockscreen, revealing a history of texts as recent as last night with a contact named Ariana Lewis. Girlfriend, judging from the conversation.

Looks like she's staying at The Rookery.

Janelle Bowden greets me warmly when I stop by the bed and breakfast.

I can't help being reserved with her, wondering if she's oblivious to Chief Bowden's side hustle or an accomplice, as hard as it seems to imagine. I flash my professional smile and lean against the counter.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Bowden," I say. "Came by to see one of your guests. Ariana Lewis? Here with her boyfriend?"

"Oh, yes—those two." She flutters a little over the keyboard of her computer. "They're staying in the Statesman suite on the third floor, second door from the right. I've been bringing the poor girl hot water bottles all day. She's having a terrible time with—oh." She drops her voice as primly as any proper lady of a small colonial town. "You know. That time of the month."

"Sounds rough," I say dryly, pushing away from the counter. "Thanks. I won't be long."

"Is something wrong?" She gives me a worried look.

"Yes, but let me talk to her first," I call back, already heading for the polished oak stairs leading up to the walkway ringing the upper floors.

I can feel Janelle's eyes following me as I make my way up to the third-floor landing—but I don't look back.

Maybe she's completely out of the loop with all this.

But with most murders in this town tied to the Arrendells and the Arrendells tied to the Jacobins and the Jacobins tied to her husband?

I'm not about to trust her with anything related to a pending investigation.

Even if, technically, I should be reporting those details to my boss.

Hell, I haven't seen Chief Bowden in the office for days. There's a sort of mutual understanding with the guys now.

We don't tell him anything if we don't have to.

We can all do our jobs just fine without him, running on autopilot.

When I knock on the right door, a soft, feminine voice calls through it, "Coming, just a minute!"

I hear a faint shuffling from inside before the door pulls open on a small, thin blonde girl with a wispy layered cut and sad brown eyes. She can't be older than twenty-five.

She's very obviously just thrown on the fluffy sky-blue bathrobe wrapped around her. She'd started to smile—but when she sees my uniform, that fades.

She frowns as her eyes flick down to the shield on my chest and then back to my face.

"Can I help you?"

"Ariana Lewis? Officer Micah Ainsley, Redhaven PD." I offer my hand. "Mind if I come in to talk?"

"What's this about?" She eyes my hand suspiciously but doesn't take it.

I hold in my sigh.

I'm not the best person for this.

I can be a little too clipped, too blunt. Then again, there's never an easy way to tell someone their partner is dead.

Even so, I try to soften my voice as I say, "It's about your boyfriend. Brian Newcomb?"

"Oh, no." Her eyes widen. She clutches harder at her bathrobe like it can protect her. "Is he in jail?"

"No, Miss Lewis." I shake my head. "It's a little more complicated than that. I think we should talk alone."

She goes pale—but I think she's starting to get the idea, and at least I've gently eased her into considering the possibility before slapping her in the face with the ugly truth.

"Um, okay." Eventually, she nods, swallowing thickly and stepping back. "Come on in."

I follow her into the suite.

It's a two-room unit in the usual rustic antebellum style Janelle favors, all lace curtains and wood furniture. I recognize the woodwork from A Touch of Grey.

Ariana and Brian seem to have settled in for a little while. There's none of the usual disarray of people living out of suitcases, just a little camping equipment against the wall of the combination living room and kitchen.

Ariana flutters her hands a little, standing between the kitchenette and the dining table. "Can I get you tea or…?"

"Would tea make you feel better?" I ask. "And do you mind if I sit?"

"No, go ahead, I—" She stares at me for a few moments longer. She knows . As I sink down into one of the ladderback chairs at the table, she whirls away from me, picking at cabinet doors and an electric kettle.

"…he didn't text me back this morning," she says miserably, looking at her hands.

I fold my hands on the table.

"When was the last time you heard from him, Miss Lewis?"

"Last night." Her voice gets smaller with every word, and she's holding the electric kettle under the faucet without turning the water on, just staring at it in her hands. "Around nine o'clock, I think? I said I was turning in early because I didn't feel well, and… I sent him kisses. He sent kisses back and said he was going to stay up late to do some wildlife photography." She lifts her head, turning a wistful smile over her shoulder. Her eyes are pleading. "That's what he does, you know? He wants to work for the big magazines, the ones still in print, but he's sold some really gorgeous pieces to nature magazines while he builds his portfolio. So, when he didn't text back, I figured he just got wrapped up in his shoot and stayed up all night, then crawled into his tent and crashed." Her laugh is brittle. She abruptly snaps the faucet on with a jerky movement, filling the kettle. "He'd never sleep if I didn't remind him, but I didn't go with him this time."

Interesting.

We didn't find a camera with his body.

We circled the whole area in a broad sweep and found a burned-out campfire. The ashes were old enough that he likely set up camp there before his death, then moved on and hadn't put down stakes that night before his mishap.

If he had a camera on him, we'd have found it nearby, even if it wasn't in his bag. It's possible he lost it somewhere else on the trip, though it doesn't seem likely.

"Janelle said you weren't feeling well?" I ask.

"Yeah, I—sorry for the TMI—but I have PCOS. Sometimes I get cramps so bad I can't walk. I have to stay in bed." She shrugs stiffly. "He offered to stay with me, of course, but I didn't want him to miss out on this when it's why we came out here. I told him to go have fun."

It's not hard to tell what she's thinking.

That I'm about to say her boyfriend's dead, and he might not be if she'd just asked him to stay.

"Miss Lewis," I say gently. "I want you to know that what I'm about to tell you isn't your fault."

She closes her eyes.

What I can see of her face over her shoulder crumples.

"…no. No, it's not, he can't be… Jesus, tell me he's not?"

"I can't tell you that, ma'am." I choose my words very carefully. I let her piece it together, holding back a blunt statement of fact.

Not optimal, but kinder than dropping a ten-ton sledgehammer on her head.

The kettle falls from her fingers and bangs in the steel sink.

She clutches her hands against the edge of the counter, her shoulders hunching.

She just stands there for more than a minute, her eyes closing, the only sound between us the rush of water from the faucet.

I know I should say something here.

I don't know how.

What would Talia do? I remember her first thought when I got my stupid ass drunk and spilled my shit all over her.

How she didn't want me to regret trusting her with that information. That told me more than anything how much she cared about never using that to hurt me.

Is it any wonder I wanted to kiss her?

I think I know what Talia Grey would say if she were here right now.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lewis." I've always thought apologies were empty, weak platitudes that can't bring the dead back or unfuck wrongs. It sure wouldn't bring my dead brother back.

But that's not what I'm apologizing for.

I'm apologizing for having to hurt her, for having to shatter her life this way.

That's fucking genuine, and the one thing I can give her right now is real honesty.

"I wish I could tell you it would be all right, Miss Lewis. I'm afraid I can't. Do you want me to tell you what we found?"

She opens her eyes, staring into the sink.

I catch a tear sliding down her cheek, visible from my angle.

"Y-yes! Tell me," she whispers.

"He fell. From a rather steep cliff," I say. "The drop was massive. His skull struck the rocks at the base of the cliff. It's very likely he felt nothing; it would have been quick."

"Quick doesn't make him less… less dead," she stammers, sobbing.

That sob turns heavy fast—and I move quickly to rest my hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle push toward the table.

"Sit," I urge. "I'll make your tea."

Crying herself hoarse, she staggers over to the chair I just left abandoned, drops down, and buries her face in her hands.

Fuck, I hate this.

I give her a moment to cry it out, without forcing her to think about me at all, and retrieve her kettle from the sink to finish what she started.

While the water heats, I fish out a mug and a teabag, grab the kettle just before it screams, and fill the mug.

By the time I slide the tea in front of her, she's starting to calm down, violent heartbreak dying into sniffles.

I settle in the chair across from her, trying not to be obvious about watching her.

She's small enough that the footprints in the grass could have belonged to her, but I don't think she's faking this reaction.

Some people can cry on demand, but not like this.

This is real.

Full-body, racking grief that speaks of true pain.

The kind of howl from the heart I knew when I stepped into the morgue to identify my brother's body.

Miss Lewis takes a shaking breath and wipes at her eyes. "I'm… I'm sorry…"

"Don't be." I shake my head. "You're allowed to be upset. Take all the time you need."

She curls her hands around the steaming mug, staring into it.

"I just can't believe it," she whispers. "He's been hiking his whole life. And now he just, what? Slipped in the dark? He was that careless?"

Damn.

Now comes the hard part.

"Miss Lewis, judging from the footprints at the scene, we suspect Brian wasn't alone last night."

"What?" Her eyes fly to me. "What are you saying? Did… did someone push him? Who ?"

I don't say anything, watching her carefully.

She goes pale, recoiling.

"Wait. Am I… am I a suspect?"

"Highly unlikely," I answer quickly. "However, it would help if you had an alibi so I don't have to trouble you any further."

"Mrs. Bowden," she rushes out. "She's been checking on me. She knows I didn't leave my room at all last night, or even today."

"I'll talk to Janelle and make sure that's in the police report." I lean in closer, watching her. "Can you think of anyone who wanted to hurt Brian?"

"God, no! We don't even know anyone here," she flares. "We're from Sacramento. It's… we've been together since high school. We do everything together. We love going on these trips, but like, anyone who doesn't like us would be back in California."

"And the locals? You haven't had any trouble with them? No drunken bar altercations or road rage?"

"No. Absolutely nothing." She smiles sadly. "We never went to the bars. We'd go shopping together, but everyone here has been so nice. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt him."

"Of course." I lean back in the chair, tapping my fingers on the table. "It may have been a crime of opportunity. It's also possible it was still an accident and someone else stumbled on the scene and fled after the fact."

I doubt it.

The depth of the impressions and the dryness of the earth made it clear they happened not long after each other. Moist, exposed dirt from the first set of boot prints would have dried enough in the open air that if someone had stepped over those prints later, the ground would have crumbled differently under their heels.

Still, I don't want to say anything conclusive to a grieving girl when I can't confirm anything yet.

She looks skeptical, though.

She looks at me like she wants something from me, something more, and I'm suddenly wishing for Talia again. She'd understand what this hurt, confused young woman truly needs when she stares at me that way.

But then Miss Lewis looks away, staring at the wall.

No, at the camping equipment stacked there, I realize.

She's playing through her regrets, wondering what would have happened if she'd been with him.

"What now?" she asks hollowly. "What will you do? What do I do?"

"I'm going to pursue an active investigation. We'll try to get an idea what happened out in the woods. Narrow down possible suspects. Can you stay in town for a few more days? Just in case I need to ask you questions about the investigation or anyone else you've spoken to here."

"S-sure." Her eyes well up again and she presses her lips together. "I don't know how to go home and tell his parents, my parents. God, they… they really loved him. But I have to stay in this room by myself?"

"Is there anyone you can call?" I ask softly. "Someone who could come out and be with you?"

"My sister," she says. "She'd drop everything for me."

There's warmth in her ragged voice, and I smile slightly. "I know that feeling."

"You have siblings?"

"A brother. I lost him just as unexpectedly. So believe me when I say I do understand what you're feeling right now."

Until this past month, before Talia, I wouldn't be able to tell a complete stranger something so personal.

Something about that girl changes the way I think.

The decisions I make.

It's like I don't want to ruin the misguided faith she has in me.

Miss Lewis' sorrowful eyes search mine.

"How did you get over it? How do you move on?"

"I don't know. That's the hard part," I say softly. "It's different for everyone. Some days, I wonder if I'll ever move on at all."

Her lips curl in a bitter, understanding smile, and she looks away, rubbing at her nose. "You probably need to go, don't you?"

"That depends," I say, even as I ask myself what the hell I'm doing. "Do you need me to stay?"

It's like that one question shatters her.

Suddenly, she's crying again, curling over her untouched tea mug and bawling herself out with a broken, "…p-please. Please d-don't leave me alone just yet…"

"Okay, Miss Lewis." I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. "I'm here, as long as you need me."

I'm starting to wonder if I'm getting tunnel vision.

If I've gotten so wrapped up in this long, slow game with Xavier Arrendell and the Jacobins, in maintaining my cover in Redhaven, that I've forgotten what's really important.

The human factor.

Sitting there for nearly half an hour, holding this stranger's hand while she cries herself into an exhausted sleep.

For the first time in ages, I feel like a person. Not a hard, cold automaton stuffed into a uniform with a quiet rage.

Shit.

What happens if I do take down the Jacobins? If I get my justice for Jet?

What will I be after that?

What can I be?

It feels like the same question Ariana Lewis has been asking herself since the moment I told her Brian Newcomb was dead.

That grim realization that her life has a different purpose now, and she doesn't know who she'll be once her grieving is all said and done.

That weighs heavy on my mind as I politely excuse myself and head back into the expansive sunlit lobby later.

Janelle looks up from the front desk, pulling at her bobbed hair.

"You were up there for a while," she says. "Is everything all right?"

"No." I stop, leaning one arm against the desk. "We found her boyfriend dead at the bottom of a cliff. Looks like he fell. She's in shock, but if you've got the time to go check on her, I'm sure she'd appreciate it. Probably shouldn't be alone right now. Bring her a meal, something light. Open a tab in my name."

Janelle goes pale, fretting her hands together and looking up toward the room, then back to me.

"Oh dear—oh my God, that poor girl! He was such a nice boy, too. So polite. Lord, that's terrible ! Don't tell me it's happening here again?"

I wish I didn't have to.

"It is," I agree. "I've asked her to stay in town for a few days while I investigate. She's calling her sister to fly in and stay with her tonight."

"Of course. I'll keep an eye on her until then, don't you worry. And forget about the tab, it's the slow season. I don't need to be down here all evening. I'll go talk to her immediately."

I nod with a brief salute, touching my fingers to my brow. "Much appreciated, Mrs. Bowden. I'll be heading back in to work now."

She switches her gaze to me with a weak smile. "Of course. It just never ends around here. Take care, Officer Ainsley."

I only nod and turn to walk away—but then her voice drifts after me.

"Oh, and could you stop keeping my husband so late?" she calls, her voice brittle, a weak attempt at forced humor. "Honestly, you're all such workaholics. He hasn't been home before midnight in ages."

I stop, turning back to her.

She's just looking at me.

Her eyes are almost desperate.

Like she's begging me for answers.

I should probably lie to her. Say something comforting. Make a goofy joke. Mind my own business.

Not open a huge fucking can of worms.

Too bad I've never been one for lying.

And I'll admit, I want to know if she's really as innocent and sweet as she seems. Wouldn't be the first time appearances were wrong here in Redhaven.

"Mrs. Bowden, you must be mistaken?" I ask slowly. "Chief Bowden's called out sick for the past two weeks. We haven't seen hide nor hair of him at the office."

"O-oh." It's less shocked and more resigned. Even so, she shakes her head with swift denial. "Wow. Okay. That… that doesn't make sense, though. Where does he go every day?"

I stare at her pointedly.

"You tell me, ma'am. Surely, you must have some idea?"

Janelle Bowden's a smart woman. She'll put two and two together.

For now, she's apparently committed to sticking her head in the sand, because she shakes her head fiercely, pressing her lips together.

"I don't. But there must be a logical explanation, I'm sure."

"Sure. You'll just have to ask yourself if you're okay with what that explanation means."

She doesn't say anything, only stares with a stricken look.

I've done enough damage for today.

I turn and walk out into the bright-red glow of the evening sun.

I'm fucking crushed as I make my way back to the station on foot.

The question of who killed Brian Newcomb and why.

The heaviness of Miss Lewis' grief and my weird reaction to it.

The shock etched on Janelle's face and just what her denial might be hiding.

What the chief might be doing every day when it's not feasible that he's hanging around the Jacobins all day.

My intuition tells me there's something deeper going on, something goddamned disturbing.

Bowden's always been off.

The man smiles a little too easy, a little too bright, and he laughs at the oddest times. It's like he puts a lot of effort into being disarming and harmless.

As I head down the street toward the station, I pass A Touch of Grey.

I can't help glancing in the shop window, but Talia's nowhere in sight. She's probably holed up in the workshop in the back.

Move on, I tell myself, but I stop when a faint jingle across the street and a flash of sunlight off glass catch my attention.

Out of habit, I scan that direction.

Then stop.

Ephraim Jacobin steps out of the butcher's shop on the other side of the lane.

He's a lean specter cut in black, dressed in their archaic-looking handmade clothes with a buttoned shirt and neat pants and suspenders. His wide-brimmed hat lays low over his face and his thick black and grey beard bells out over his chest.

There's nothing inherently wrong about Ephraim stopping at the butcher's. The Jacobins sell pig meat and blood to the shop all the time.

Still, I don't like how he stops one bit.

How his head turns toward me.

No—not me.

He's looking at Talia's shop.

The man stares at the window for too long, his scarecrow expression unreadable—right before his eyes snap to me with a sharpness that says he knows I'm watching.

He knows why.

I see it in the slimy, overly polite way he tips his hat at me.

Yeah, I don't fucking like it. Don't like him being within a hundred yards of Talia.

My teeth are clenched as I hold his eyes.

Then I turn and walk pointedly inside her shop.