Page 62 of Fat Arranged Mate
"Wait," I call, following them. "He really should have these wounds properly dressed and—"
But they're already gone, Donovan's hand firm on the father's back, guiding them away from me, from questions, from truth.
***
The Mitchell house sits at the edge of town, a modest two-story surrounded by pine trees. Lights glow in the downstairs windows as I park a half-mile away, approaching on foot through the gathering darkness.
I've texted Dylan three times. No response. Whatever "special operation" he's involved in tonight has taken him beyond communication.
Which means I'm alone in this recklessness.
I move silently toward the house, grateful for the cloud-covered moon hiding my approach. From the edge of the yard, I can see the family through the kitchen window—mother washing dishes, father at the table, Sam's red hair visible as he bends over what looks like homework.
A normal family scene built on manufactured terror.
I hesitate at the tree line. What exactly is my plan here? Confront them? Expose the lie? To what end?
Before I can retreat, a dog barks sharply from behind the house. Sam's head snaps up, face turning toward the window. Our eyes meet across the darkened yard, his widening in recognition.
Seconds later, the back door opens. "Hello?" he calls softly. "Nurse Sera?"
I step forward, heart hammering. "Hi Sam. I just wanted to check how you're doing."
He glances nervously over his shoulder. "Dad's inside. You shouldn't be here."
"I know. I'm sorry, but—those weren't wolf injuries, Sam. We both know that."
His small face crumples. "Rex didn't mean it. He's not bad."
"I believe you," I say gently. "But why is your dad making you lie?"
"He said—" Sam stops as the back door opens wider.
"Sammy? Who are you talking to?" His father appears, expression shifting from confusion to wariness as he spots me. "Mrs. Winters? What are you doing at my home?"
I straighten, abandoning pretense. "Your son wasn't attacked by a wolf, Mr. Mitchell. As a medical professional, I can't ignore falsified reports—especially ones that fuel dangerous prejudice."
"Sam, go inside," he orders. The boy hesitates, then disappears into the house.
Mitchell steps into the yard, closing the door behind him. "You have no right to come here."
"And you have no right to use your son to spread lies," I counter. "Why? What do you gain from this?"
Something unexpected flickers across his face—not anger, but fear.
"You don't understand," he says, voice lowering. "Things are happening in this town. The Guardians... they're not what they seem."
"What do you mean?"
He glances nervously toward the house. "You think… listen, do you seriously think they justletpeople not join up? If I want to keep my family safe, I don’t have a choice. There’s a level of… involvement that’s expected."
Cold dread pools in my stomach. "And the fake attack reports?"
"They needed evidence. Public support." Shame crosses his features. "I thought I was keeping my family safe by going along with it. But now they're arming everyone, distributing silver ammunition, talking about… bad things. This isn't what I signed up for."
Suddenly, headlights sweep across the front of the house. I hear the roar of an engine out on the road.
Mitchell's face pales. "You need to go. Now. If they find you here—"
