Page 60 of The Sea Witch's Son

Snowflakes are painted along the pale barnboard floors, making it look like a winterized version of farm chic. The worn-down sofas are covered in blankets of varying shades of blue while a long dining table brings a white palette to the room. Crystals hang down from the low ceiling, the long blades of glass made to look like icicles sparkling in a frostbitten room.

Picture frames hang along the far wall, each one showcasing a middle-aged man proudly shaking hands with different celebrities. I recognize a few of them, Winter Haven the influencer-turned-businessman, Violet Johnson the rising Canadian actor, and Gaston Cartier after his Mr. Universe victory, but the rest of them are unfamiliar.

“The orange hair makes it easy to pick out a Clementon.” Freya shuffles next to me and points to another photo, “That’s my father and his cousin.”

I study the grainy image of the two men clasping hands. One of them is wearing a military uniform with a royal crest stitched along his chest.

“I thought the prince was your godfather?”

“He is, but he’s also a relative. My father abdicated his title when we moved here.”

“Didn't Anton get stripped of his title after the insurance scandal?” Tahira fluffs up a cushion before leaning back against it, “Something about stealing tax money from his loyal subjects.The man was running from fourteen years of prison time, if I remember correctly.”

Freya shrugs, “That too.”

I stare at her, “And he’s the town mayor?”

“Yeah, but he’s mostly clean now.”

Tahira scoffs, “More like he’s terrified of the Dragon. Imagine if she found out he was stealing from her beloved town?”

She makes a gruesome sound and slices a finger across her throat, “Anton Clementon would cease to exist.”

Freya glares at her, “The Drache women have done nothing to earn their position in this town. Male-

“Donotsay her name.” Tahira sits up, her dark eyes blazing, “The Dragon has cleaned up the streets and brought the black market back to its former glory. Without her, your father would have no citizens and no tax money to play around with. So, show some fucking respect.”

A tense silence falls upon the room. I shuffle my feet awkwardly, trying not to make eye contact with either of the fuming women.

“Freya, you should probably rest that leg.”

She jerks her head and shuffles over to the opposite sofa. Tugging uncomfortably at the straps of my backpack, I clear my throat.

“Is there a bathroom on this floor?”

Freya doesn’t spare me a glance, “To the left of the kitchen. Past the stairs.”

“Thanks.” I duck my head and scurry from the room.

Terse voices fade to a dull murmur as I quickly lock myself into the washroom.

A painting hangs on the wall behind the toilet, a watercolour portrait that looks like something you buy at the craft store. Swirls of ice flow around the figure in the picture, a delicate woman in a translucent dress with a long blonde braid falling down her back.

I stare at it before turning my attention to the mirror cabinet above the sink. Pulling it open, different pill bottles stare back at me, the no name brands giving me no clues into the man who runs this town.

Once I finish washing my hands, I bypass the kitchen and take a peek into the small office space just beyond it. To my surprise, the door is already pushed open, just waiting for someone to slip inside.

Through the glass panes I can see an ancient filing cabinet standing off to the side, it’s chipped lock long past the state of use. I think about the files stored within my reach, the personnel reports that would give me insight into every resident and homeowner in Wolf Hollow.

Listening to the voices echoing from the other room, I take one last breath and slip inside the open door. My feet pad softly against the hardwood, every sound accentuated by the thunderous beat of my heart.

Hurrying past the desk, I head straight for the filing cabinet and pull the first drawer open. Faded yellow folders line the entire drawer, each one organized in alphabetical order.

The entire top shelf is dedicated to campaign strategies and names of sponsors, so I move on.

Luck strikes me in the bottom drawer. Tax slips attached to family names stick out from the dividers and I quickly pull out the Seaborn file.

A mug shot slips from the folder. Picking it up off the ground, I study the woman staring at the camera, her dolled-up face oozing amusement while her expression remains neutral.

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