Page 232 of A Vicious Love

A rabbit, maybe.

Someone lifted a rifle.

“No.” I said.

The man stopped.

Her brother looked at me. “No?”

I glanced at him. “Did I stutter?”

The dog stood in the brush looking confused.

The rabbit vanished. I kept walking. After a beat, so did everyone else.

Her father gave a quiet laugh, trying to turn the moment into amusement. “Not a sportsman, then?”

“No.”

“I would have thought Crows enjoyed hunting.”

“We do.”

Silence followed. I enjoyed it. Then I looked at him.

“Not animals.”

The forest became much more pleasant after that.

Men stopped pretending this was recreation. They started remembering who I was.

Her father carried his rifle for another hundred meters.

“Give it to your son.” I said.

He looked at me. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

His sons stopped behind us. So did the uncle.

Mr. Bellemere’s expression tightened. “This is my family land, Jamison.”

“And yet.”

His fingers flexed once around the rifle. Slowly handed the rifle to his eldest son.

There.

That was better.

Men lied differently when their hands were empty.

I continued walking.

He followed.

We reached a clearing a few minutes later, where the trees opened around a patch of mossy ground. It was probably beautiful to people who liked pretending nature did anything but rot, feed, and repeat itself.