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“Probably.”
“Then y’all will be fine.”
“Like Metacomet was fine?” I studied his face. His eyes were intelligent and focused, but held a tiredness as he turned toward the whoosh of the automatic doors at the entrance. “I've got two bedrooms what with Lisa camping at her fiancé’s until they find an apartment in New York. Stay with me.”
“I'll take that under consideration, Miss Davins,” the sheriff rumbled, playing with his pen as a woman sidled over and asked to borrow her boss. “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Mishra-Anderson.”
“Jali,” the woman extended her hand with a guarded smile. I recognized her as the officer Caelan had sent to intercept Tammy at the discovery of Stephen’s pelt. She was a petite woman, reserved in tone and nature. Unlike Jorge, she didn’t have a spare word for pleasantries and simply whisked her boss away to inform him of her findings.
Rather than wait, I went in search of Mila. When I retrieved her from the grateful aide, Mila explained hand-holding was for babies, but nevertheless squeezed the life out of my fingertips as we browsed the hospital gift shop.
“My ear hurts,” she announced.
I crouched to examine her earring: a silver stud punched through the left lobe. Whether red skin resulted from infection, constant tugging, or normal werewolf reactions, Caelan or Calico would have to answer.
“Can I take it off?”
“Not here.”
She thrust her bottom lip into an exaggerated pout. “It hurts.”
I smoothed her ponytail. “I know, but there’s too many humans.”
Moody, she flipped through coloring books as I glanced at cards and well-wishing balloons. I needed a book on coping to better help her, but in the meantime, what was the appropriate choice of gift for a grieving child? Gram had barely discussed death with me. Hush up, be quiet, grieve on your own, smile pretty for the realtor giving us a tour or there’ll be questions. Questions were always right around the corner. Someone was always watching.
I squished my anxiety into an exorbitantly priced stuffed giraffe. “How about him?”
“No.”
Relieved, I danced a medium-sized teddy across the display. “Her?”
“No.”
Candy, books, magazines, card games . . . A firm, resounding “no” every time. Freaking Aiden all over again.
I’d volunteered at dozens of the museum’s free for families events, (wrongly) thinking I was great with kids. They had been welcoming and compliant because they’d wanted more paint, string, or whatever the medium of the month was so they could enhance their interpretive masterpiece.
Mila needed a distraction of her own design.
“Alright,” I decided, clapping my hands. New tactic. “It’s settled. We'll give this money to Klimt, my . . .” I chewed my lip, pulled animal shapes together from a row of figurines. “Waldorpus. He'll know what to do.”
Her ponytail whipped my arm, she turned so quick. “A what?”
My mouth fell open in feigned surprise. “You’ve never heard of a Waldorpus?”
She shook her head.
I made a show pulling her into a corner. “Waldorpi are secret guardian spirits that protect you from harm. They live under beds. Sometimes you hear them growling, when they're fighting the nasty Scritchies and Scratchies.”
She let out a soft huff and folded her arms across her unicorn shirt. “Are you for real, Deputy Davins?”
“Cross my heart. Klimt’s right here.” I pointed to my shoulder. “They're invisible in the daylight, but sometimes if you squint real hard, you can see their shadow. Klimt says yours is right there.” I pointed at the top of her head. “Thing is, Waldorpi won’t appear unless you name them.”
Her hands rose above her hair tie. “Here?”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” I continued. “I can't tell.”
She squinted in the shop's glass door. “A girl,” she decided. “What’s she look like?”
