Page 7 of Wynter

“You said you feel like a block of ice when you’re anxious,” Aurora repeats. “Do you know why you associate your anxiety with a block of ice?”

“Associate my anxiety…” I trail off as I mentally go over the past half hour. Aurora freaking out when I shifted. Not just a bit surprised, but like, really panicked. Then Aurora acting all normal the second I shifted back. And all confused when I said I thought she was Doc. And now, her saying I feel like an ice block, not that I am an ice block. “Are you human?”

Instead of telling me what kind of supe she is, or shaking her head, Aurora regards me thoughtfully. “Do you not feel human, Xavi?”

“Shit.” I bury my face in my hands. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Deep breaths, Mr. Izaguirre,” Aurora says calmly. “It’s very normal for us not to feel human sometimes.”

Which only makes me panic more. Because she’s obviously human. And the town is warded. And she’s probably forgotten half our conversation by now. If not all of it.

“How are you supposed to help me when you can’t even remember a word I’m saying?” I moan.

“Do you often feel as though people can’t remember what you tell them?” Aurora asks.

I groan. “I’m doomed. Doomed! I’m going to get fired. Or I’ll write the article and Zoe will hate me. Not that it matters, since I’ll never be able to ask her out. How could I, when I keep shifting into an ice block?”

I don’t know why I bother telling Aurora, since none of her questions make sense, but I’m here and I’m on this couch, and I might as well talk.

“And to top it all off, if I don’t write this article, my boss will. And rumor has it the Cleanly Den is already losing clients. Once this article goes out, no one will hire them. And then Zoe might be out of a job, too.” I groan. “She loves that job. You should see her when she cleans. She doesn’t just mop or dust, she orchestrates her cleaning supplies so they almost look like shifters come to life. Brooms twirling and mops swaying and her eyes sparkling.” I shake my head. “That’s how I first fell for her. Watching her clean the Herald office. And I can’t let her lose her job. Especially when I know for a fact she didn’t rob all those stores.”

“You have proof?” Aurora speaks up for the first time.

“Of course I don’t have proof. If I had proof, I wouldn’t be here.” Which is a total lie. I’d still be here, but I’d be complaining about something else. Probably my inability to approach Zoe. But that’s beside the point. “I know Zoe didn’t rob anyone. She loves her job. She’d never do anything to jeopardize it.”

Aurora seems to think that over. “So if Zoe isn’t robbing anyone, who is?”

“I don’t know. No one does. That’s why my boss…” I trail off. “Wait, that’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“I know exactly what I need to do.” I jump to my feet.

“What do you need to do?” Aurora frowns.

“I need to write this article.” I race for the door. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

“For what?” Aurora calls after me. “Xavi, wait! Our session isn’t done yet!”

But I’m already racing down the hall. Because if the Cleanly Den isn’t responsible for the robberies, someone else is. And if I can just find out who before the deadline, the article I write won’t have to be about the Cleanly Den thief. Okay, maybe it will be, but it’ll be about the real one—who’ll be behind bars.

Then, Zoe Wynter will finally notice me. Even if I do shift into an ice block.

Chapter Three

Zoe

“So the first place that got robbed was Buttercup’s Bakery?” I ask Shifter Roulette Amber, who continues to cycle through forms faster than… well… faster than I can say robbed.

She’s already told me about all the places the thief struck, but there must be something I’m missing. Some sort of pattern the police overlooked.

Each store got cleaned—and cleaned out—on the same night. But just because the Cleanly Den van was parked outside—and one of us was inside—doesn’t mean we’re to blame. I know that for a fact. I was the only one at Buttercup’s Bakery Friday night, and all I took were my cleaning supplies and the slice of cherry cheesecake Buttercup set aside for me.

“Let’s just wait for the detective,” Amber, who’s shifted into a hockey player—one in a red Silver Springs Blades jersey, but for some reason without pants—suggests.

“We don’t have time for that.” I ignore her choice of wardrobe, and the fact that her shifting keeps getting more wonky. “So Buttercup’s—”

“Zoe, I get it. You’re worried. I’m worried, too. But—” Amber shifts into a headphone-wearing elk and grunts.