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Gwyn’s kind words started something in me I don’t want to think about. She can tell it’s guilt eating me alive, and I’m still surprised at how much I want to believe her. How much I want to think it wasn’t my fault. Part of me wants so badly for Remy’s death to be unavoidable because it means I didn’t fail my family.

“Anything else, Roman?” Margot clears her throat in a way which tells me it’s not the first time she’s asked the question.

“Damn, his truck is fucking pristine.” Dismissing everything else, I’m surprised to find a recently detailed vehicle. It’s not new, the leather showing wear in the driver’s seat, but it’s far better kept than his house. It’s not empty either, a hunting cap sitting on the passenger seat, spare change in the cupholder, and a Glock in the glove compartment. But that’s it. And it’s clean. “It sort of smells like bleach.”

“Do you smell blood, though?”

“No. The bleach is pretty faint too. But it’s been almost two months now, since—”

I clear my throat, not bothering to finish the sentence. Checking the center console, I’m fucking thrilled my search has paid off. Pocketing the receipts I find first, I power on the cell phone.

“Found a burner,” I say.

“Hell yeah. Alright, bring it back, and I’ll get out there tomorrow or the day after.”

She hangs up, and I’m left to go through his flip phone. It’s not password protected, and the man has nothing on it but three phone numbers. Debating the intelligence of my decision, my finger hovers over the call button.

Though Charlie said he didn’t kill Remy, the way he laughed made it clear he knew more. I’m on the right track, but I don’t know where it’s headed. Charlie was human, and as far as I know, Gwyn is the last hunter. Unless there are sorcerers or demons involved, I don’t know how Charlie could have pulled it off. With no wards on his cabin, the process of elimination points to demons.

I don’t know if that’s something I want to fuck with. But for Remy’s sake, I have to.

Pressing the button, I call the first number on the list and pace on the driveway. I can still scent our blood here, and I’m grateful Margot and I won’t show up in any sort of database. When the automated message of a doctor’s office plays, I almost hang up. I don’t give a shit about the old man’s doctor’s appointments.

But when I look at the number again, I recognize the area code this time—Virginia. I let the automated message play again, listening for the doctor’s name, and I’m relatively certain it’s the same name printed on Gwyn’s bottles of anxiety medication. The second number is the same area code, and I’m shocked when someone actually answers it.

“You found her?” I don’t answer, and it makes her sigh. “I told you never to call me while I’m at the office. If you’ve lost her, and she doesn’t show up for her appointment, I don’t know how you can expect the AMH results.”

The woman hangs up. When I call back, she sends it straight to voicemail, so I call Margot as I head back into the house and explain what I found.

“Did Gwyn have any appointments set up for next month?”

“She had an appointment scheduled with her hair stylist and her yearly gyno checkup.” Margot’s reply is instantaneous because she’s that damn good.

“Send me her records.”

“I did that ages ago. They’re on the tablet, but I assume you want them to your phone?” She’s annoyed with me, and I can’t help my grin when I’m able to prove her wrong.

“I brought the tablet, smartass.”

“Shut up, you did not!” Pride is evident in her squealing voice, and I hang up before it goes too far.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in Charlie’s basement as I go through the electronic records. When my phone vibrates, I realize Margot must be looking on her end. She sends me a clip of a video from Gwyn’s doctor, talking about some new technique to treat cervical cancer, and I recognize the voice from the phone.

Something beeps, and I check all the monitors to make sure no motion is detected outside. Determined to figure out what the fuck kind of tests Charlie could be interested in from Gwyn’s fucking gynecologist, I tell Margot to look up what AMH stands for.

My gut churns when I read the notes from her last appointment. Among bullet-points for irregular menstruation, an STI screening thanks to Josh’s infidelity, and a follow-up for IUD insertion, the doctor scrawled something that takes a moment to process.

Despite absence of birth control, the patient reports no pregnancies. Patient currently declines any further testing.

I hadn’t looked to see when Gwyn got her IUD, and I certainly hadn’t considered she could have been attempting to reproduce with that bottom-feeder. My chest constricts when I think about it. I recall the recording from the day I found out Remy was dead, and I scroll through my phone to find it and press play.

“She’s pregnant. Look.”Gwyn sounds matter-of-fact, but I’ve listened enough, paid enough attention to her voice to hear the slight pause between words. The stiffness tells me now what I couldn’t hear then. I’d thought it had been heartbreak because the man she loved, who had so deeply wronged her, had moved on completely. While that must have been part of it, I wonder how much—if any of it—was sorrow over a baby that had never come to her. And potentially never would.

“Fuck.” I toss my phone on the desk and lean back, cupping the back of my head with my hands. Margot is researching what I asked of her, so I try not to get too ahead of myself. Something beeps again, and I frown before getting up to pace around the room. When Margot texts me to confirm that an AMH screening has something to do with fertility, I scrub my hands over my face. Grabbing the back of the computer chair, I’m tempted to pick it up and throw it.

Gwyn is the last hunter, and Charlie wants her to carry on her line. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I shiver when I think about him trying to use her as some sort of hunter incubator. He deserved a harsher death, and I’m feeling conflicted over the entire thing. Gwyn had asked me not to kill him, and I had been actively fucking disappointed when I’d failed to honor her request. I’d hesitated like some kind of amateur when his gun was in my side. And for what? This man deserved his death. I shove my hands in my pocket, reaching for my keys so I can head back to the compound and question her about it all, and am confused when I pull out the receipts I forgot I’d taken from Charlie’s truck.

Unfolding them, I realize they’re all from the same place. Three different receipts from a tobacco shop, each payment over five hundred dollars.