Page 23 of The Devil Knows Her Name

“I think it’s dangerous.”

“All wild animals are dangerous; that’s why you have me.”

“But this is beyond the pale, Tess. It bit me.”

“You have the teeth marks to prove it?”

Red crept up from under his collar. “Well, maybe it didn’t succeed in biting me, but it tried. And if it tried to bite me, it probably did bite that woman who was hiding it.”

I gritted my teeth, trying to decide how to play the conversation. This was exactly why I didn’t like being so ham-fisted with my magic; I could dominate someone’s mind in the moment, or make many people forget something they barely noticed in the first place, but Broder, who was petty and bored and hated people who knew their rights and didn’t invite cops into their homes, wanted to believe the fawn had bitten him. The magic might prevent him from remembering the incident clearly, but that hadn’t stopped him from getting his way before.

“Frankly, I don’t think she did try to bite you,” I finally said. “You tore your sleeve open on a nail, remember? Fawns don’t have the teeth or the bite strength to do that. Even if she had done that—which is almost impossible—it just means you got too close to a wild animal.”

“And what if you’re wrong? What if it is aggressive, and next spring you release it, and suddenly it’s not so little and helpless anymore, and it’s not afraid of humans?”

“That could be the case with any animal. Frankly, I’ve rehabbed animals far more likely to bite and do damage: coyotes, fishers, weasels. I’m not sure why you’re questioning my judgment in this case.”

I had told myself I wouldn’t use magic on Broder so soon if I could help it, and definitely not about the fawn, but I was like an addict; I reached for it again, drawing on just a hint of power. I only wanted him to tell the truth.

“I just think it’s unnatural,” he blurted. “There’s something not right about it. The way it looked at me—it knew what it was doing.”

We stared at each other through the bars for a moment, both of us surprised by the admission. He was breathing hard, the flush climbing higher up his neck, and I felt a matching surge of rage heating my blood.

This yokel, this pig-eyed, tiny-minded fuck, wanted to question me? I’d been saving and treating animals since before he was a twinkle in his cross-burning father’s eye, and he thought all that experience was worth less than some hillbilly suspicion? It didn’t matter that he was right, that I myself had spent the past day wondering if the fawn had been born on the devil’s whim; I understood the forces at play here, and he was just a man with a bruised ego.

The magic simmered in my grasp, begging to be used. Years of small annoyances and resentments coalesced into a molten core of fury, and I wanted to hurt him.

But I resisted. If I did that now, I’d have to keep him under my thumb until he died, and I was under too much strain as it was.

Instead, I said, “Chief, I realize it can be unnerving when you’re not used to being around wild animals—”

“Bah!” He gave a frustrated wave, as if he could swat my words away like flies. “It’s not about that! I’ve hunted all my life. I know how deer are supposed to look, and that wasn’t it.”

“That’s all well and good, but it’s hardly a reason to put an animal down.”

“Can I see it, at least?”

I smiled thinly. “Now, Chief, you know you’ll need a warrant for that.”

“Nobody said anything about a crime.”

“That’s true, and that will probably make it hard to get a warrant, but you’re welcome to try.”

For a moment, I thought he would shout at me; the flush in his neck was so vivid it would have to vent somewhere. Instead, he released a hiss of breath through his teeth, and without another word he got back in the car and slammed the door. The spray of gravel from his tires spackled the still-tacky epoxy on the gate and left me in a cloud of dust.

I didn’t have much time to worry about my conversation with Broder. Before I knew it, the afternoon had come and gone, and my usually empty calendar had one thing on it for that evening: Paul’s going-away party.

The party had been on my calendar for a week, and every day I’d waited for Evelyn to call and say, The party’s off; Paul decided he’s staying. But she hadn’t, so I changed into a clean pair of jeans, scooped up the berry cobbler I’d thrown together that morning, and drove over to Paul’s place on the other side of the valley.

My friends’ cars were already in the tree-lined driveway, a warm yellow glow emanating from the 150-year-old farmhouse’s windows in the dusk. Before, I would’ve been able to make out the shapes of his small herd of Belted Galloways out in the pasture, but the fields were empty. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d missed a step up there on my own hill, believing Paul would back down from his plan, and all the while he was selling off his pride and joy, loosening his roots from Burrsville’s soil.

I went up the rickety steps to the slanted porch and put my shoulder against the door to work it open. A little chorus of welcome greeted me, along with Paul’s border collie, Shep. The dog bounded across the room to greet me, and I hurriedly dove a hand into my pocket and dropped a treat, sending him sniffing across the floor rather than careening into my berry cobbler.

Max and Christine were in the front room, packing up the wall hangings and photos—the needlepoint Evelyn gave Paul for his birthday, the selfie he took with his very first calf, the portrait of Shep I gifted him to smooth things over when he asked me out to dinner and I said no. Georgie and Evelyn were in the kitchen, wrapping Paul’s collection of mismatched plates and bowls, the single drinking glass and the too many mugs. Paul himself was filling a few nail holes in the hallway, and he waved and gave me a smile.

“Mm, that smells delicious,” Evelyn said, relieving me of the cobbler and setting it on the counter next to Georgie’s ancient slow cooker.

“Quite a little feast here,” I said, casting an eye over the row of casserole dishes. “We expecting more people?”