Page 48 of Witch's Wolf

“I’m a bit suspicious myself,” she adds. “One-hundred-fifty thousand dollars is a big lump of money. Do you trust me, Erica?”

My mouth is dry. Instinct screaming no, despite not having a reason not to. She is the one who turned me onto the harsh truth. She’s been honest with me when apparently everyone else I depended on in my life has lied.

“Yes.”

“Then do not sign anything until I give you the green light.”

The finality in her tone leaves no room for argument. Before I can press her for details, black-red smoke swirls around her, and she vanishes. Silence lingers in her wake, but the energy has shifted. I should be furious with Monica, still seething, but the moment for that has passed.

In its place is exhaustion. My mind spins with too many thoughts, too many questions, too much uncertainty.

I want quiet. Peace and quiet. And there’s only one place I’ll find it now. Monica’s home.

26

SAM

I’m fine. Right. I did what I had to do. This is what had to happen.

I tell myself this repeatedly. I put her in her place and shut the door on whatever there was of us. I kept it civil. No insults, no name-calling, only the cold truth, delivered with the weight it deserved. Monica got what she wanted, and I walked away feeling… satisfied.

Satisfied. Right.

That lie doesn’t hold for long.

Minutes pass, then hours, but disappointment and frustration, raw and unshaken, creeps back in. It coils around my guts like barbed wire. I’m under a motorcycle, searching for a leak in the exhaust, but I’m not seeing the leak or even the bike. I see her.

Erica. Her head tipped back against the door, eyes wide with something like desperation.

“Leave, Sam,” she whispers. “Please, go. Leave now while you can.”

Her voice, broken and raw, echoes in my skull, growing louder every time I push it away.

And it doesn’t stop at the shop. God damn thing follows me home and burrows into every quiet space I try to claim. My cabin, always my sanctuary, has been tainted by her presence. She’s a lingering ghost, even her cinnamon scent clings to the air. The kitchen counter? Yeah, I remember exactly what we did there. Every horizontal surface in this place holds a memory, both physical and emotional, I don’t want but can’t escape.

Cooking used to be a distraction and music an escape. Now every song feels like a landmine. She sang them, once. Right there on stage at Michelle’s, her voice cutting through the noise, making the whole damn bar fall silent. I hear it, clear as the night she looked straight at me, pouring everything she had into those lyrics. I don’t hit play on my stereo. I can’t let the music in, because if I do, I know what’ll happen.

Her voice will wrap around me, pull me under, and I’ll be right back where I started. Bearing a weight I’ve carried for too damn long. And I don’t think I can stand it if it gets any heavier.

Late at night, I return to the workshop. I tell myself it’s for the quiet, for the space, for the cold steel and chrome. Solid things that don’t lie, don’t promise, and most especially don’t twist a knife in your gut when you least expect it. But the truth is I’m not here to work. I’m too damn tired for that. Too tired and too raw. I grab the power drill from the counter, more for something to hold than any real purpose, when movement catches my eye.

A slip of white paper was shoved through the gap under the door. I freeze, uncertain if I should look. It takes me a second before I decide to take it. Even when I do, my fingers are hesitant, and my pulse kicks up a notch.

I want it to be here. I do, but I’m sure it’s not Erica. Certain of that much. It won’t be my brothers or Nora. They know where to find me and none of them are in the habit of slipping notes under doors like some secret admirer. I flip it over, already certain who it is before I read the first line.

“My dear Samuel,”yeah, only one person in this valley calls me that.

Helena. My grip tightens as I scan the words. She’s leaving town. Something about Erica, a business offer that doesn’t sit right. Someone playing her, maybe. I exhale sharply, my gut twisting.

“Your witch is very talented indeed and deserves a great future in music, but I have to look into this first.”

Two words stick my attention and I read them again.

Your witch.

The words drag up all the things I came here to try and escape. The things I don’t want to feel. The end of the letter is the real kicker, though.

“She’s in danger. Go to New York. Watch over her.”

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