Page 13 of Fang Fatale

Leland says something.

Dandy fires something back.

Another volley.

Then the door opens wider.

She steps onto the porch.

Birdie Longfellow.

The first real look I've had since taking the case.

She's smaller than I expected.

Softer, too.

Brown hair twisted into a careless knot. Freckles scattered across her nose. Bare feet peeking from beneath the hem of an oversized cardigan that looks more borrowed than bought.

She isn't looking for me.

She's looking at Leland.

Whatever expression passes between them is gone before I can pin it down.

Recognition.

Wariness.

Maybe resignation.

Maybe all three.

Then her gaze drifts.

Past Leland.

Past Dandy.

Toward the tree line.

Toward me.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to that single look.

I'm not usually prone to mystical revelations, but the air seems to compress around us anyway.

She has the look of someone who's spent her whole life being overlooked...

...and learned to survive because of it.

No panic.

No relief.

No silent plea for rescue.

Just quiet assessment.