Page 33 of The Witch & the Hound
"She'll be okay," I told him, because sometimes you had to say it even when you couldn't promise it.
"How do you know?" His voice was small.
"Because we're looking in the right direction. And because your sister's smart enough to find somewhere safe."
He nodded, wanting to believe me.
We passed the bonfire in the town square, families roasting marshmallows, a guitarist playing something folky, laughter rising into the October night. Normal. Safe. Completely oblivious to the panic spreading three blocks away.
Bram paused at the edge of the square, breathing deeply. His tail gave a sharp flick.
"She stopped here," he said, voice certain. "Stood by that lamppost." He pointed to one on the far side, away from the fire's light. "Then moved east again."
"Toward the pier," I confirmed.
The pier stretched out into the harbor, old wood and newer renovations making an uneven patchwork. During summer, it was packed with tourists, fishing boats, and kids jumping off the end into the water. Now, in the late October evening, it was mostly empty, too cold for swimming, too dark for sightseeing.
Too many places for a small child to hide. Or fall.
My stomach tightened.
We crossed the street, Bram leading us past the closed ice cream shop, past the bait-and-tackle place with its hand-painted sign. The crowds thinned as we got farther from Main Street. The string lights ended. The laughter faded.
Just the sound of waves against pylons and the distant cry of gulls.
Bram stopped at the pier's entrance, a wooden archway with "Seaview Harbor" carved into the crossbeam. His expressionhad gone focused in a way I recognized, the look of someone tracking something invisible, trusting senses the rest of us didn't have.
"She came this way," he said. "But the scent's weaker here. The wind's coming off the water, dispersing it."
"Can you still follow it?"
"Yes. But it'll be slower."
"Then slow's fine." I looked down the pier, dark except for a few solar lights marking the walkway, boats rocking gently in their slips, shadows everywhere. "Ethan, did Lily ever come here before? Does she know this pier?"
He shook his head. "Mom doesn't let us go past the ice cream shop."
So she wouldn't have a mental map. Wouldn't know which way led back to safety. She'd just run toward quiet and dark and away from the overwhelming noise of the festival.
Right into danger.
I pulled out my phone and texted the deputy:Pier. Send backup when available.
The response came immediately:On our way.
Good. Because if Lily had gone all the way to the end of the pier, if she'd climbed down between boats or tried to hide under the docks...
Don't borrow trouble, I told myself. Focus on what you know.
Bram was already moving onto the pier, steps careful on the weathered planks. Some of them were new, pressure-treated lumber that didn't creak. Others were old enough that they groaned under his weight.
I followed, heels loud against the wood. Should've worn sensible shoes. Should've kept a go-bag in my car like I had when I was on the force. Should've done a hundred things differently.
But I hadn't, so I was searching for a missing child in a cocktail dress and borrowed heels, following my barghest date.
We passed the first set of boat slips. Sailboats mostly, covered for winter, rocking gently. Their halyards clinked against masts, a lonely sound.
Bram paused again, breathing. "She touched this." He pointed to a bollard—one of the short posts used for tying boats. "Her hand. Recent."
