Page 22 of Fang Fatale

I’m practiced at reading people, but with Birdie, the longer I look, the more aware I become of my own blind spots.

I need a new angle.

Cassian, as much as it pains me, is sometimes the sharpest tool in the shed.

At the Blackthorn Bay Police Substation, nothing says fraternal law enforcement like the overwhelming scent of burnt coffee and the way the front door whines when I enter.

Cass is hunched behind the reception desk, up to his knuckles in an oversized crossword puzzle. Every square is inked with varying degrees of contempt for language, rules, and whoever devised the clues.

He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. I’m the only person who comes in before noon without being summoned or arrested.

“You’re out early,” he grunts, circling an answer with enough fury to nearly tear the paper. “Didn’t figure you for an AM stalker.”

“You wound me.” I drop into the vinyl visitor chair, which still squeaks from last week’s run-in with a local shapeshifter. “I was conducting surveillance. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

He finally looks up, all wolf eyes and expressive eyebrows, delighted to have an audience for his irritation.

“Spying on Button Cottage again?”

“Observing.”

“The entire town knows you’re there. Mrs. Blood and the squirrels have an informal betting pool on what happens next.”

“I was perfectly concealed.”

“You were standing behind a tree half your width.”

“A poor detective blames his vegetation.”

Cassian stares at me.

I let the silence stand.

Eventually, his mouth twitches.

“She doesn’t match the profile,” I say. “At all. Either Brooks lied, or he’s a spectacularly unreliable narrator.”

The amusement leaves Cassian’s face.

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “When you looked into him, what did you find?”

“Nothing.” Cass glances toward the two-way mirror, which is mostly for show, then tosses his pen onto the desk. “That’s the part that bothers me. No sealed juvenile record. No old traffic tickets. Not even an unpaid parking fine. It’s like he came out of the womb fully formed and ready for business.”

“People don’t come out that perfect.”

“Exactly.”

I pick up the stress ball from his desk and roll it between my palms. “There’s always something. A juvie prank. A late library return. An unfortunate haircut preserved in a yearbook.”

“Unless someone went to a lot of trouble to bleach the record.”

There’s a note of camaraderie in his voice that might be touching if the room didn’t smell faintly of dog biscuits.

I set down the stress ball and thumb the edge of one of Cassian’s business cards.

“Brooks told me Birdie lost her mind. Said she became irrational, impulsive, impossible to reason with.” I flick the card between my fingers. “What I saw this morning was a woman who’s been running out of options for so long, she’s forgotten what it feels like to stand still.”

I remember the way she squared her jaw when I mentioned Leland. The way she watched me—not merely for what I might do, but for the danger that might be standing just behind me.