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He cleared his throat. “I understand you aren’t interested, but he’s your responsibility to keep alive, Miss Davins. If you need help shaking him, say the word.”
“You think whoever killed Stephen will be back?”
“I do.”
A left lane driver laid on their horn. I jumped as a Honda Civic swerved into the middle lane. An accident at their speeds would’ve made the morning traffic report. The murder on my doorstep should steal today’s headlines, but I doubted there’d be even a footnote.
“Werewolves and other creepy crawlies aren’t swarming the news,” I observed, returning my phone to my purse.
“Those in authority would say for good reason.”
Several cars sped past as I processed his comment. If I couldn’t rein in the thoughts whizzing by a hundred miles an hour faster than the cars, I was going to anxiously babble myself into a corner and Gram wasn’t here to bail me out. “If incidents have been kept under wraps since what I’m going to assume is the dawn of humanity, why upend my universe? I haven’t seen anything that couldn’t be explained away to the general public. Whatever proof I have is being erased as we speak, isn’t it?”
“Evidence is being collected in a murder investigation,” he said stiffly, then in a pleasant tone, added, “Would I be correct in presuming you’ve read and enjoyed Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?”
“You would,” I said, curious. “Not my favorite, but I like it.”
“Same.”
Surprised, I glanced at him. “Really?”
He nodded.
“To be honest, and this sounds terrible, but my wings if I’ve got ‘em aren’t white, I find that hard to believe.” Gram had taught me the importance of maintaining grace under pressure, but every tactic she’d drilled into me evaporated when I saw the look on his face.
“My choice of reading or the fact that I read?”
My cheeks reddened. “I, uh, sorry. I have this general image in my head of folks who read books and paging through fiction was far and away not the type of activity I’d have pegged you enjoying in your off hours. And definitely not Lewis Carroll.” I studied his profile— lean, strong, and at the moment I spoke, sporting a dimple. “Maybe the new Teddy Roosevelt biography. I heard it’s great.”
“The glorious gift of reading is the ability to escape from normal life, Miss Davins, whether your reality involves murderous werewolves or cats that have it out for a hall plant.” Canine mischief smiled through his features. He stretched his arm over the back of my seat and leaned in. “However, if you’re hankering for a subject change, go on ahead and list the off-the-clock activities you believe a gentleman such as myself partakes in.”
“Let’s stick with Alice,” I insisted, tilting the vents toward my flushed cheeks.
The sheriff made a show of lowering the air another couple degrees. “In case you’ve forgotten, Alice awakens from the horrors of Wonderland with her head on her sister’s lap in the idyllic countryside. The difference between your rabbit hole and the one Alice tumbled down is you won’t wake up from a dream. You either burrow deeper or are dragged out by tooth and claw.”
“So I’m screwed.”
“So you’ve fallen under my protection. Until Stephen’s pelt was dumped on your doorstep, it was my job to do everything in my power to keep you uninvolved.” He lowered his voice. “As you should be doing for the accountant.”
“Now?”
“I do everything in my power to keep you alive. Would call you unfortunate before I ever call you lucky, Miss Davins, but if it provides any comfort, I am happy to report I have the lowest civilian casualty rate of current active sheriffs.”
“‘Lowest’ doesn’t mean zero,” I said.
“You can’t save everyone.”
“Can I see your badge again?”
He obliged.
I searched the surface for some symbol or hint to prove his job was anything other than ordinary. Finding nothing, not even after a quick comparison to examples on my phone and some ‘helpful’ conspiracy theory search suggestions from the sheriff, I relented.
He grinned, returning it to his hip. “Told you, Miss Davins, I’m a professional.”
“But what kind of professional? Paranormal CSI? A hunter? I've watched Supernatural. They traipse about pretending to be FBI or police. That's you, isn't it?”
He laughed, a low chuckle that vibrated a funny way in his throat. “I’m friendly with several hunters, but I’m contracted to your government,” he explained. “You’ll find my name listed in a division buried beneath bureaucratic nonsense and mundane committee names. In the US, we’re titled sheriffs for ease of trust, movement, and authority when handling situations inside and outside ordinary human belief.”
