Page 6 of Night Owl Books

I shrugged one shoulder. “You’re the cop. I’m just a bookseller.”

Grinning, he shook his head. “Right.” He hopped off the edge of the porch and then turned back to me, his head weaving back and forth until he caught my eye and grinned. “I haven’t figured you out yet, but I don’t think you’rejustanything. You’re most definitely something.” He gave me a nod and then circled around the back of the house and out of sight.

THREE

Avengers Assemble

Ifell asleep considering what we knew and what we’d seen in the video. Was I part of an investigativewe? No, I was not. Still, it gave me something different to ponder than my most recent book, which was unusual and rather thrilling.

This reality business was far different from the mysteries I read. In books, breadcrumbs of clues were dropped, so I always knew what was happening and often who done it, sometimes as soon as he appeared on the page. I could study the descriptions, the lines of dialogue, and know how the author wanted me to feel about a particular character. In real life, we only had a voice on a video. He could be anyone. I was feeling decidedly off balance, but I kind of liked it.

When I woke, I was still considering the previous evening and the ridiculously handsome cop as I made myself a meal. It might seem odd to refer to a midafternoon meal as breakfast, but that was what it was. Omelets were easy, so that was my go-to, usually throwing in whatever meat I had in the fridge.

I sat on my shady porch, listening to the leaves rustle in the breeze, eating, and reading, though my mind kept wandering back to that video we’d watched of the man in the truck.Frustrated, I shook my head and scanned the page, looking for the last line I remembered reading. I’d never had trouble concentrating on a book before. That had always been my number one skill in life. This new preoccupation was exciting, though it did get in the way of my reading. Eventually, the story drew me in and I stopped thinking about something that, honestly, had nothing to do with me.

Around six, I went for a long walk in the forest. With one ear bud in so I could listen to a true crime podcast, I searched for anything out of the ordinary. Neither the officer nor I had found anything in my woods, but it seemed worth a second try.

In the investigation I was listening to, the detectives had accessed Ring camera footage and saw the make and model of a car passing on a road at the time and near the location of a child abduction. I wondered if Garra could do the same. Maybe some of the houses across the street from my woods had caught an image of the truck.

When I realized the evening was getting away from me, I ran home, got cleaned up and dressed, and was unlocking the front door one minute after eight.

On the porch waited one of my regulars. He got off work late and sometimes liked to stop in for a new book on his way home. When he heard the lock snap open, he turned from the railing and gave a quick nod.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said as though we were in the middle of a conversation. “I’m going to read that Camus book you mentioned a few months ago.” He walked past me and headed deep into the fiction section.

“The Plague?” I guessed, trying to place the conversation. I was so bad at remembering the things I said. I often didn’t listen when I spoke, my mind usually engaged elsewhere.

“That’s the one,” he murmured.

I thought a moment. “It’s on the third shelf down, left side. Black book. White writing on the spine.”

“Got it,” he called.

He met me at the black walnut table I used as my checkout spot. I had a tablet with a point-of-sale system and a card reader. That was it. No cash. Most customers didn’t need bags, but I had a few with a little owl logo I’d drawn by hand. Sometimes I needed to think about the book I’d just finished before starting a new one. During my thinking times, I’d get out some pens and start sketching a little cartoon owl on a short stack of bags.

When the Plague man left, I went to my favorite step on the stairs to read.

A flash of light pulled me out of the story. Looking out the window, I watched headlights coming up my hill. I glanced over at the wall clock above the front door. Midnight. I didn’t recognize the truck, but I used my finger as a bookmark and went down the stairs.

Was this last night’s truck man?

The guy who came in the door was tall, probably a half a foot taller than my six feet. He had dark wavy hair that curled at the collar, a dark beard, and kind brown eyes.

“Hi,” he said, looking around. “Am I in the right place?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Depends. Were you looking for a book?”

He grinned. “Night Owl Books, right? I’m Declan.”

When he didn’t say anything else, I shrugged and said, “Okay.” I waved my hand around the store and added, “You can look around if you want.” I went behind my desk and sat on a stool, opening my book back up to where I’d left off.

He stood watching me a moment and then went into the stacks, pulling out his phone and texting. He wasn’t the truck guy from last night, though he was a wolf. This man’s voice was much deeper and growlier than the threatening man’s.

Damn it. I was doing it again. My eyes were skating over words, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about werewolves stalking human women.

More headlights bobbed up the hill. Another pickup truck and an SUV this time. It was Grand Central Station around here.

The truck parked first. The man who got out put up his hand in greeting to the man parking the SUV. The truck man jogged up the steps and came in. He was a little taller than me, copper-colored skin taut over wide cheekbones. He had long black hair and dark eyes. He was clearly Native American, but that wasn’t what was bothering me. It was the feather and forest scent that put my back up. He wasn’t an owl, but he was some kind of raptor shifter.

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