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"No."

"Gage."

"Not like that." It comes out rougher than I want. "They're writing on your glass because they want you frightened and they want you to hear it from them first. I'm not going to let them have that."

"So I wait."

"I'm going to tell you in a room, in daylight, with your feet on the ground. Not four words in fog." I make myself look at her.

"And then you get to decide what you do with it. That's the whole point. That's the only thing I've been protecting."

She's quiet a long time.

"Fine," she says. "Then start."

"Start what."

"All of it. Last night I couldn't deal with it. This morning I'm asking." She pulls her sleeves down over her hands. "Tell me what you are."

So I do.

I tell her shifters are born, not made. That there are about forty of us about an hour away from this town, and I'm the Alpha, the one the rest answer to, which sounds impressive and mostly means I settle arguments about property lines.

That we were here before the town was.

I tell her witches are real, and organized, and that two of those groups matter. One of them has been touching her things.

She takes it better than I take telling her.

Then she reaches over and turns my hand palm up and looks at what's left of the burns, and neither of us moves for a second longer than we should.

"They're closing," I say.

"That's amazing." Her thumb doesn't move. "How fast do you heal?"

"Fast."

She lets go and stands. "I need coffee before you tell me the rest. And I need you to know this doesn't mean anything's fixed."

"I know."

"Good." She's already walking. "You want a cup, or do Alphas just eat raw..."

She stops in the kitchen doorway.

I'm up before I know I've moved.

Her kitchen table is covered with her things.

The hairbrush from her bathroom. One earring. A lipstick. A grocery receipt in her handwriting. The orange Bell & Bone apron, folded into a square. A paperback with a cracked spine. Her spare keys.

Laid out in a perfect ring. Evenly spaced. Every one of them turned to face the center.

And in the middle, face up on the wood, a small square photograph of a dark-haired young woman with serious eyes.

The one that vanished out of the necklace.

"Don't touch it," I say.