Page 12 of When the Woods Go Silent

I don’t love the question that points out my lack of organization, but I understand it. “Probably not. Unless it was computer equipment.”

“Office looked like it did last night,” the woman says, her tone flat but kind. She circles her flashlight on the ceiling, clearly unworried.

“I’m sorry to bring you out here again,” I say reflexively.

“No worries. It’s the job. If I were you, though, I’d have someone from the alarm company come out and test it. We were told the trigger came from the back door?” She examines the display on the alarm’s control pad to be sure.

I nod, thinking of the woods so close behind our building. An intruder could disappear into that thick darkness so easily.

“Could have been an animal, then. Raccoon or something.”

The idea seems to settle both cops, but I’m not so certain. Surely, the alarm won’t be going off every time a trash panda wanders by the window. The cops head upstairs for due diligence, me trailing after them. Everything is quiet here, as well.

“Well, hope you can get some sleep tonight. And don’t worry about calling,” the woman assures me again with a friendly smile. “Crime’s low here, especially before tourist season. Things get boring.”

I force a small laugh for her, and they thud back down the stairs.

For the second night in a row, I lock the doors and set the alarm after a police search.

“Ru, you owe me,” I mumble as I drag myself back to my bed, even though I haven’t told her about either incident yet. I pull the covers up to my nose, but sleep doesn’t find me again. Instead, I watch the shadows in my room, imagining shapes created by the boxes and piles of things I haven’t had time to organize.

Outside the window, an owl hoots, and the wind picks up again. I want to love it here in Clearwater, but tonight, just for amoment, I wish I was back in the bustling, never-sleeping city, surrounded by the safety of familiarity.

CHAPTER SIX

RUBY

“I know I’m too old to believe in fairy tales, but I just can’t quite convince myself that magic only lives in books,” I say, my grin shy as I brush dark hair out of my eyes. I want to get these words out. Need to get them out.

I’ve been biting them back for years, but theyhaveto live somewhere other than my own head again. “Plenty of people believe ghosts or angels or demons are real. Why not fae?”

The pair of authors interviewing me for their newsletter blink at me for a moment, exchanging a quick glance with each other. Yeah, I said it. But then they both nod, smiling back at me as one gestures for me to keep going. I can’t help but worry if they’re secretly finding me a bit crazy, but I remind myself that I don’t really care.

This book conference is freaking packed with my kind of people, and my odd obsessions feel safer here.

Besides, once upon a time, I told this story to everyone - at family parties, to new friends, and even once in a middle school class presentation. I haven’t told anyone new in years because I got tired of the negative reactions. But to hell with it. This is my chance to be remembered, and I have no problem being thought of as weird if it means that word about our bookstore will spread.

Do it for the views, right?

So, I tell my story, careful not to embellish the experience of seeing an honest-to-Goddess fae, because it was both everything and nothing that people expect to hear.

There were no wings at her back, but her ears were pointed and her skin pale green. Her magic swirled around her like colorful smoke as she made vines and flowers grow in impossible locations and patterns.

Her fae glamor had changed like the seasons, painting her hair and features differently as the magic washed over her, making my skin prickle with wonder when our eyes met across the silent forest.

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