Last Person to See Her

I stared at the notebook, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something less concerning. They didn't.

The Keeper belongs to neither side.

"Okay, Grandma. Very inspirational. Still doesn't explain why there was a werewolf in my garden."

I turned the page.

A Keeper may stop an act of violence, but only for a short time. Peace must be agreed upon, not forced.

Well, that explained the kitchen incident. Apparently, I could yell at people hard enough to make them physically incapable of killing each other. A useful skill, considering the company I'd been keeping lately.

I skimmed the next few pages. There were notes about agreements, boundaries, and disputes between people whose names meant absolutely nothing to me. Grandma had recorded them in the same neat handwriting she used for grocery lists, as though mediating disagreements between werewolves and Huntsmen was no more remarkable than remembering to buy milk. One entry mentioned a Huntsman who had been caught setting traps too close to the boundary. Grandma had written "idiot" in the margin. I smiled despite myself. That was Grandma.

I kept flipping through the notebook, looking for something that might explain what had happened to her. There were years of entries, most of them concerning territorial disputes and broken agreements, but nothing that explained why Grandma had been killed or why nobody had bothered to tell me about it.

Eventually, I gave up trying to read everything and flipped to the back. The last entry was dated three days before Grandma died. My stomach tightened.

Meeting with Ezekiel tomorrow evening to discuss the broken contract. He claims the wolves have violated the agreement again. I have asked him to bring proof before taking any action.

I read it twice. Ezekiel. Not Zeke, unfortunately — Grandma had apparently respected his ridiculous name.

I turned the page, expecting another entry, but it was blank. So was the next one. I flipped through the rest of the notebook, but there was nothing else. Grandma had been planning to meet Zeke the evening before she died. The same Zeke who had broken into my house tonight. The same Zeke who had told me she was murdered by werewolves.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

I set the notebook down and tried to think. He had known Grandma. He'd known who I was before I told him my name, and he'd known exactly where to find me. He'd also been remarkably comfortable walking into her cottage without permission. And now I knew he'd been meeting with her right before she died.

I wasn't a detective. I wrote romance novels, which meant I had spent a considerable amount of time inventing reasons for attractive men to behave suspiciously, but that was not the same thing as investigating an actual murder. Still, even I could recognize that the last person known to have arranged a meeting with a murder victim was probably someone worth asking a few questions. Assuming Grandma had actually been murdered. I hated that I was beginning to consider it a possibility.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened my messages. The last conversation I'd had with Grandma was still there. She'd sent me a picture of a squirrel sitting on her garden fence with the caption The bastard is back. I'd replied with a laughing emoji. She'd sent another picture ten minutes later. He's eating my tomatoes.

I stared at the messages until my eyes started to sting. Grandma had been alive when she sent those. She'd been standing in this cottage, probably at the kitchen window, taking pictures of a squirrel she was convinced had a personal vendetta against her. And now I was sitting on her living room floor, holding a notebook that suggested she'd been involved in something dangerous enough to get her killed.

I swallowed and put the phone down.

"Okay, Grandma. What the hell happened?"

The notebook offered no assistance.

I needed to find Zeke. And the wolf, for that matter, although I was considerably less enthusiastic about tracking down a man who could turn into something capable of eating me. Unfortunately, I'd kicked both of them out of my house without asking for a phone number. Brilliant. What was I supposed to do — search for Ezekiel the Huntsman on F******k? Post in the town's community group asking whether anyone knew the whereabouts of a six-foot-something man with a sword and an apparent inability to respect private property?

I could ask James and Daisy in the morning. They'd known Grandma, and judging by how quickly they'd shoved me out of their shop, they knew something about the wolves too. But that meant waiting until morning.

I looked toward the kitchen window. The woods beyond the garden were dark, and I had absolutely no intention of going back out there tonight. Not even if Ezekiel appeared between the trees holding a signed confession and a complimentary bottle of wine. I was going to bed.

I stood, tucked the notebook under my arm, and turned off the living room lamp.

A knock sounded at the front door.

I stopped. For several seconds, I stood perfectly still, staring down the hallway.

Another knock came. Three measured taps.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

I marched into the kitchen, set the notebook on the table, and grabbed the heaviest frying pan I owned. I wasn't entirely sure what I intended to do with it. If the person outside was a werewolf, I doubted a frying pan would make much difference, but it made me feel marginally better about answering the door.

"Who is it?"

"Ezekiel."

I closed my eyes. Of course it was.

"Go away."

"Alora."

"No."

"I need to speak with you."

"Funny. I need to speak with you too, but I was planning to wait until morning like a civilized person."

There was a pause.

"Why are you holding a frying pan?"

I looked down at my hand. Then at the door.

"How do you know I'm holding a frying pan?"

"Your kitchen window."

I turned. There he was, standing outside the window, looking at me through the glass.

I screamed. He flinched.

"Jesus Christ, Zeke!"

"Open the door."

"STOP LOOKING THROUGH MY WINDOWS!"

He stepped away from the glass. I stood there for another moment, breathing hard, then put the frying pan on the counter and unlocked the front door.

He was standing on the porch with his arms folded, looking irritatingly composed for someone who had just scared approximately ten years off my life.

"What?"

He glanced past me into the cottage.

"May I come in?"

I blinked. "Oh, so now we're asking permission?"

His jaw tightened. I stepped aside before he could respond, mostly because I wanted answers and partly because it was cold outside. He entered, and I shut the door behind him.

"Why are you back?"

"I need your help."

I stared at him. Then I laughed. It wasn't a particularly pleasant laugh.

"You need my help?"

"Yes."

"With what? Your inability to use a front door without making it a whole thing?"

He looked at me for a moment. Then he said, "There's been another attack."

My laughter stopped.

"What kind of attack?"

"A Huntsman was found near the boundary. He's badly injured."

"And you think a werewolf did it?"

"I know a werewolf did it."

"Right. Of course you do."

He frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

I walked past him, picked up Grandma's notebook, and opened it to the last entry.

"Funny you should ask."

He looked down at the page. For the first time since I'd met him, the expression on his face changed so completely that I almost didn't recognize him. He reached for the notebook. I pulled it away.

"Nope."

"Where did you find that?"

"Grandma's desk."

"Alora—"

"Did you meet with her?"

He went still. I held the notebook up.

"Just days before she died. She wrote that she was meeting you to discuss a broken contract. You told her the wolves had violated the agreement, and she wanted proof."

His eyes moved from the notebook to my face.

"Did you meet with her?" I repeated.

"Yes."

My stomach dropped.

"What happened?"

He didn't answer immediately. I took a step toward him.

"Zeke."

He looked away.

"Your grandmother and I had a disagreement."

"About what?"

"The wolves."

"Was she alive when you left?"

His head snapped toward me. For a moment, I thought he might actually be angry. Then something else moved across his face. Something that looked uncomfortably like guilt.

"Yes," he said.

I searched his expression.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

He didn't answer. Outside, a wolf howled. Ezekiel looked toward the window, and I had the sudden, unpleasant feeling that whatever had brought him back to my cottage was considerably more serious than he was letting on.

Then he turned to me.

"I guess you don't. Are you going to help me or not?"