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Willow: Food for thought.
Willow: Out of curiosity, do you have an Uncle Moses who lives a couple hours from here? Your father’s parents really said Bible theme with their two boys, huh?
Willow: That’s cute. I like it.
Willow: Cool book, too.
Willow: I especially love the part where that girl drives that stake through that guy’s head.
Willow: Anyway. Bookstore. Page Turner. Downtown. Two co-authors I like just released a sequel to their first mythology retelling.
Willow: Alana and I are heading there to sniff pages.
Willow: You in?
I am still fighting the hit by a truck, how dare you think a nap was a good idea feeling while I contemplate actually going out and getting hit by a truck.
Scrubbing my face, I go to my contacts, select Pollux, and call.
A moment passes before a gruff, “Yes?” comes through the line.
“I require verbal confirmation that Willow isn’t a serial killer. I’d ask if you gave her my number, but I think it’s safe to assume she found it herself if she has the name of my uncle.” As well as, apparently, his current address.
Another moment passes before Pollux, reassuringly, says, “Willow is not a serial killer, to my knowledge.”
“To your knowledge?”
“To my knowledge.”
I attempt to bring moisture back into my mouth after what seems to have been a blackout two-and-a-half hour coma. “Like, what percentage of confidence in that knowledge are we talking here?”
Moments pass. “Eighty-seven.”
“Really? Eighty-seven. You can’t even give me a ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine Germ-X level of confidence?”
“The woman snaps rooster necks with her bare hands whenever she breeds her chickens and too many males are born. Also, not once, not twice, but three separate times she has informed me which plants in this area are endangered in case I need to hide a body under something that is illegal to dig up. Also, if I do need to bury a body, she’s told me I should bury it vertically. It takes more effort, but I suppose it isn’t the shape law enforcement officials are looking for when they search for victims of murder. Also, I should bury an animal nearby and at a shallower depth, because then the search dogs will alert to that. Eighty-seven percent is a decent odd.”
Eighty-seven percent is a beautiful odd.
“I am assuming Willow contacted you?” he murmurs.
“She told me she knows where me, my parents, and my uncle live. Then she invited me to the bookstore.”
The deepest sigh I have ever heard rumbles into my ear. “Because of course she did.” He mutters a swear followed by Willow’s name. “Do you want to go to the bookstore?”
“I do like bookstores. I don’t like being murdered and buried vertically under endangered plants.”
Pollux exhales a laugh. “My concern for that is zero percent. I respect Willow.”
Yeah, I mean, how could you not?
“You will be safe with her,” he says.
“Promise?” I ask.
“I shouldn’t make promises so loosely in such an unpredictable world.”
My phone buzzes against my ear.
