Page 55 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

But now he’s just an arm’s length away, waiting at the end of the checkout line, his arms crossed and his eyes sharp, an ever-present reminder that he only dated her and lived with her for the job.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Maison says, suddenly. “What, that’s your thinking face, you’re thinking of something frustrating.”

“That just looks like her normal face,” Gurlien chimes in, which doesn’t help.

“Thanks,” Delina throws back, picking up as many bags as she can before Maison takes them all from her, like in addition to defending herself she’s incapable of carrying a bevy of Target bags.

Gurlien just shrugs. “Congrats, this is the nearest place of civilization to your cabin.”

For a dingy target next to a tractor store and a garden shop, it’s not exactly inspiring hope, though the air is crisp and fresh as they step back outside to begin the annoying trek back to the car.

“Chloe loves it, but she grew up rural,” Gurlien continues. “One gas station and one fast food sort of town in the middle of cornfields, so this is downright cosmopolitan.”

It’s not that she lived in a big city or anything, but at least it has more than this. More variety.

“Prescott wasn’t bad,” Maison says, in a way of conversation. “Anything we couldn’t get local, there was always Sedona or Flagstaff or Phoenix. It had its charm.”

Gurlien squints at him. “The smallest city you’ve lived in was Atlanta.”

“And now Prescott,” Maison insists, and it’s such a nonsensical argument. “We had a brewery and a meadery and all the weird whisky bars you could ever want.”

“There’s a brewery half an hour away, if you want to go sometime,” Gurlien says, and it’s just a breath away from normal. “They do a good Irish Red and a decent Cream Stout.”

Maison actually looks interested, before he shrugs. “Maybe in a few days, after this threat.”

“There’s also the dive bar in Sequim, it’s awful but it is cheap.” Gurlien ticks it off his fingers. “And there’s the family diner that has a surprisingly respectable variety of wines, when Chloe and I have people visit—which does happen, by the way—we usually go there. Chloe takes dates there, that sort of thing.”

It’s true, Delina hasn’t really thought hard about their social life outside of the tiny little cabin, but it’s logical they have one.

“I like a decent wine,” Delina says, once again approaching the sensation of normalcy, of not being entirely ripped away from everything she knows. “I like this idea.”

Maison shoots her a glance, his dimple on his chin.

Right before everything goes to shit.

They swing around the building to the view of the car, and Chloe’s standing there, her backpack clutched to her chest, witha strange man right next to her, a hand gripping the back of her neck, holding her there.

Immediately, Maison drops the bags, swinging Delina behind him, her shoes skidding on the still-damp pavement. The bags burst open, products rolling and clattering around.

The stranger is tall, clearly in his mid-fifties, with grey-blond hair and annoyingly blue eyes, and Delina abruptly shudders when his gaze glances off of her.

Something about him is wrong.

Very wrong.

On the ground beneath him is a neatly drawn circle, similar to the one spray painted in the graveyard.

After a split second, Gurlien strides forward, his shoulders back.

“Korhonen, hello,” he calls, and Maison tenses, his hand tight on her arm. “Thought you’d never stop by.”

The man doesn’t look at Gurlien, not even a glance, instead focusing on Maison, unnaturally still.

“It’s been what, a year?” Gurlien continues, and by the whites of his eyes, he’s bluffing. “How’s your family, how’s the job?”

Maison takes a step back, still holding Delina behind him, forcing her back as well.

“It’s been interesting up here, you know,” Gurlien says, still chatting, “Never thought the College would take an interest in us up here.”

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