Page 31 of The Witch & the Hound
"It's not your fault," Bram said firmly. Then, to the mother: "Where did you last see her?"
"The town square. By the bonfire. There were so many people, and the music, and—" She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting tears. "She's scared of crowds. If she panicked, she might've run somewhere to hide."
Bram looked at me. I was already standing, already reaching for my purse, cop instincts slamming into place like muscle memory.
"We'll help," I said.
His mother's expression crumpled with relief. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Trevor appeared, looking uncertain. "Your dinners will be out in a few minutes—"
"Box them," I said, pulling out my card and handing it to him. "We'll pick them up later. Or not. Just charge the card."
Bram was already moving toward the door, Ethan practically attached to his side. The mother followed, casting grateful, bewildered looks back at us.
I caught up to them on the sidewalk outside, where a young deputy stood with a radio in hand, looking desperately out of his depth.
He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with the kind of fresh-faced earnestness that meant he'd probably graduated from the academy six months ago and had never dealt with anything more serious than noise complaints.
When he saw me, recognition flickered. "Hey, Maggie."
"Where's Sheriff Carson?" I barked at him, full cop mode now. It had slid back on like my old uniform.
"Out of town. Fishing trip up north. Won't be back until tomorrow." He looked at his radio like it might provide answers. "I've called it in, but we don't have enough people to do a proper search, and with the festival crowds—"
"How long has she been missing?"
"Twenty-three minutes."
Not long. Not long enough for real panic yet. But long enough that a six-year-old could get far, could get hurt, could get lost in a town full of strangers and bonfires and dark alleyways between buildings.
I looked at Bram. He was already scanning the street, nostrils flaring slightly, head tilted like he was listening to something the rest of us couldn't hear.
"Can you track her?" I asked quietly.
"If I have her scent. Something she touched recently. Clothing, a toy—"
"Her jacket," the mother said immediately, pulling out a small purple windbreaker from her bag. "She was wearing it earlier. Took it off when she got hot."
Bram took it, holding it carefully. He pressed it to his face, breathing in deeply.
The deputy watched, uncertain. "Is he... is that going to work?"
"It'll work," I said with more confidence than I felt.
Because I had no idea if it would work. I'd never seen a barghest track someone. Didn't know if the stories were real or myth or somewhere in between.
But Bram had gone very still, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured. His tail hung loose, tip barely moving.
Then his eyes opened.
"I have it," he said. "Strawberry shampoo. Sweat. Something sweet—candy?"
"She had taffy earlier," the mother confirmed, hope breaking through her panic.
Bram turned toward Main Street, then stopped. He tilted his head and adjusted his position.
"She went east," he said. "Toward the pier."
