Page 5

I close the notebook and run my thumb over the worn edge of the cover before slipping it back into my bag.

Screaming Woods wasn’t on any of my lists. Until three months ago, I barely knew the place existed.

Then I dreamed about it.

Nothing dramatic. No disembodied voices or glowing symbols carved into trees. Just a road winding through dense forest beneath a silver moon, the trees crowding close on either side. Somewhere beyond them, warm lights glowed from the windows of a strange little town I’d never seen before, yet the sight of it filled me with such a sharp, inexplicable sense of recognition that I woke with my heart pounding—not with fear, but with something close to homesickness for a place I’d never been.

Screaming Woods.

I laughed. Then I searched it.

Three weeks later, an administrative position came up at a small local nonprofit that could be done remotely but required somebody based in town. A month after that, I was offered the job. Then a cottage became available for less rent than I had any right to expect. Coincidence after coincidence until ignoring them started to feel more irrational than following them.

So here I am on a Tuesday morning in Screaming Woods. Honestly, I’ve made worse decisions.

Early fall has settled over the town. The trees are beginning to turn, and amber leaves collect against the curbs. Cold air brushes my cheeks as I exit the car, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, coffee, and something sweet from the bakery farther along the street.

The café door flies open as I take one step toward Lucky Bean. A woman backs through wearing an apron, carrying two paper cups and a pastry box. Quills sweep back from her head through dark brown hair, delicate and glossy, then continue down her arms.

“Oh, perfect. Hold this.” She thrusts one of the coffees into my hand, readjusts the pastry box threatening to slide from beneath her arm, then plucks the cup back. “Thanks. Bernard will have a fit if I drop his cake.” She peers at the name on the cup. “Unless you’re Bernard?”

“Not since last Thursday.” I grin. “I’m Nora.”

“Melinda. You new in town?”

“Just arrived, actually.” I fish my phone from my pocket and pull up the address. “Briar End Lane.”

Melinda nods knowingly. “Oh, those cottages.”

“Those cottages?”

“Nothing bad. They’re cute. Old. Edge of town. Back onto the woods. Mrs. Harrow used to own both.”

“Used to?”

“Moved to Florida.”

I stare at her. “A woman from a town called Screaming Woods moved to Florida?”

“She said hurricanes were more predictable.” Melinda glances toward the café, where a man is now standing behind the window pointing urgently at one of the cups in her hand. “Oh, damn. Bernard.”

She starts down the sidewalk, then stops and looks back at me. “You’ve got the cottage on the left?”

“I think so. Number fourteen.”

Her expression changes, and interest gleams in her eyes.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Melinda.”

“I’ve known you three minutes. You can’t already use that tone on me.”

The man in the window knocks harder.

Melinda winces. “I have to deliver these before Bernard reports me to whatever governing authority oversees porcupine baristas.”