Page 3 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

Nell knocked over her empty wine glass. Blinked. Leaned closer to the computer screen as the ellipses bubble pulsed for what felt like eternity.

Goldie Flynn →

This prolly sounds crazy but hear me out.

I’m in Bellwether, moved here three years ago when I needed a reset and it’s MAGICAL, literally.

Such a weird-ass city but also amazingly cool.

It’s been the best move in FOREVAHHHHH and I’m totally living my best era now.

AND GUESS WHAT I found out like yesterday there’s an opening at the library I work at that if I remember you correctly would be STUPID PERFECT.

Nell Townsend →

Bellwether? I didn’t know anyone actually lived there. Isn’t that the place where the cryptids first came out?

Bellwether had made headlines ten years ago—not because of any law passed or historic protest, but because of what locals called the “Bellwether Reveal.” One night, the fog rolled in like it always did. And the next morning, half the city just...stopped pretending.

Shapeshifters appeared at the DMV. Feathered baristas were suddenly serving your morning brew.

An alderwoman with antlers went on-camera.

And there were no riots or chaos. The city just seemed to quietly shrug and say, yes, and?

It was the first American city to publicly acknowledge cryptid residents without incident.

Although some still called it a hoax, or a tourism stunt, or an apocalypse in slow motion, Bellwether kept moving forward in its quietly strange, strangely quiet way.

Nell opened a new tab on her computer and typed in the name of the city. Huh. Only 32 minutes away. She hadn’t realized it was so close.

Nell Townsend →

Do you live in a lighthouse and wear dramatic shawls?

Goldie Flynn →

Sadly no lighthouse, but I do own at least four dramatic shawls.

ABOUT THE JOB THO GET THIS it’s a freaky little library with zero drama, no overtime, and amazing bennies.

The front desk person quit and my supervisor’s looking for someone calm and competent.

Know that it’s way below your intelligence level but this place is dope and soooooooo chill.

Exactly perfect for a divorcee trying to get her feet on the ground.

They’re super picky about who they hire but if someone here recommends it’s like an instant in lol

Nell stared at the screen. It sounded too good to be true, which probably meant it was.

But.

She started typing a reply. Deleted it. Started again. Deleted that, too.

She looked at the empty wine glass. Took a deep breath. Then, she cracked her knuckles and typed:

Nell Townsend →

Great. Are they cool with people who are basically a haunted house in a Target dress?

The response was immediate.

Goldie Flynn →

Totes. That’s exactly the aesthetic we go for.

Seriously, amazing hours, chill people, and no one yelling or asking why you’re crying in the break room.

Send me your resume? It doesn’t have to be good.

I’ll drop it on my boss’ desk tomorrow and demand you get an interview stat.

She’ll call you, trust me, or I’ll tell her I’ll slash her tires

Nell laughed. For real. Not that exhausted huff she’d been faking for months. This all felt like too much—too weird, too sudden. But also a little bit like fate, or something akin to it.

Nell Townsend →

You’re gonna make me cry. I’m bloated from too much wine and takeout and been wearing the same clothes for three days and I’m a complete mess. Are you serious? If so this is the best thing that’s happened to me in a super duper long while.

Goldie Flynn →

Heyyyyyyyyyyyy girl. Go ahead and cry but then take a shower and get ready because I want you to come meet me in town Thursday at 4 p.m. I’m buying you something overpriced and covered in whipped cream.

Sorry it can’t be alcohol but we’ll wait on that until you sign on the dotted line.

We’ll plot your post-divorce rebirth. Sending you the deets now.

Goldie Flynn →

Also? I kinda need this too. Been feeling like I'm living in a snow globe lately—pretty but isolated. Having you here would be like someone finally shook things up in the best way. Kisses babe xoxo

–

Goldie Flynn looked exactly as Nell remembered, only more .

Her hair was longer, cascading in red-gold waves down her back, and her eyeliner was the same sharp flick Nell remembered from drama club days, yet somehow more dangerous and deliberate.

Her lipstick was a daring plum, and her dress looked like it had been conjured rather than bought, all swooping black fabric and little stitched moons.

She still carried that effortless witchy charisma that made you want to spill your secrets and ask her to read your tarot at the same time.

Nell, by contrast, felt like a second draft someone had given up revising.

Her brown hair had puffed into uncooperative curls that frizzed at the temples.

The cardigan she’d thrown on sagged unevenly over her shoulders, and her leggings had a fuzzed-out spot on one thigh from too many laundry cycles.

Everything felt a little too snug. Blame the stress-snacking, the takeout, the sleepless nights.

Ten extra pounds didn’t look great on her five-foot-four frame, but she tried to bear it gracefully. Or at least invisibly.

She smiled anyway. Tried to match Goldie’s energy as they leaned across the narrow table in an awkward but sincere hug.

"Gods, you look exactly the same," Goldie said, settling into her seat.

"Except sadder. Which is fixable." She unwound her scarf with practiced elegance.

"I, on the other hand, have been through three career changes, two spiritual awakenings, and one very expensive therapy breakthrough since graduation. "

She gestured at herself with mock grandeur. "Behold: the final form of Marigold Flynn. Tarot reader, vintage typewriter collector, and professional finder of lost things. Which is why I knew you'd surface eventually."

She flagged down the server with a flutter of fingers that seemed to summon attention like a spell.

“We only have forty minutes before I turn back into a desk goblin,” she said, eyes sparkling, “but I fully expect this is just the beginning of many, many meetings. So. Updates. Stat.”

Nell laughed, a little too loud, and then immediately deflated. She tugged at the hem of her cardigan, and then twisted the ring on her finger, working at it like it could ground her.

“It’s been a bit,” she said. “I moved into this weekly-rate place near the highway. Super charming. You know, if you’re into flickering lights and neighbors who scream in the parking lot at two in the morning.”

She paused. “I could’ve stayed in the house for a few more months, technically. I mean, my name was still on everything. But Edward moved her in the week after I left. I came by to grab a box of winter clothes and she answered the door in my old robe.”

Goldie scrunched her nose and hissed through her teeth as the waiter dropped off her latte. “Ew. Nope. Absolutely not. Exorcism-level offense.”

Nell laughed again, softer this time. “Low bar,” she said. “But, yeah. I guess this is better. At least I know no one’s using my loofah.”

Goldie gave her a look of half-sympathy, half subtle invitation. The kind of look that said you can say more, if you want to.

And Nell, to her horror, did.

“He said I wasn’t who I used to be,” she said. “That I stopped being easy. Stopped being soft. That I got distracted, and I was always tired and somewhere else . That I had too many feelings. That I was too much and not enough. Somehow both at the same time.”

She looked up at Goldie, bracing for judgment. But Goldie just tilted her head, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug like she was letting Nell warm herself on the edges.

And, surprisingly, Nell felt lighter. Like she’d just let something out that had been pressing behind her ribs for months. Not gone, but aired . Less sharp. Less shadowed.

"You know what's funny?" Goldie continued, stirring her latte with unnecessary precision.

"I've been in Bellwether for three years, and I still feel like I'm playing dress-up sometimes.

Like I'm this close to being found out as a fraud.

" She held up her thumb and forefinger, barely apart.

"But, then, someone like you shows up, and I remember that maybe we're all just making it up as we go along. "

She reached across the table and took Nell’s hand. “I know it’s a lot, but I really think this is your opportunity to get your groove back.”

Nell let out a tiny, half-disbelieving laugh. Goldie squeezed her hand.

“Honestly, the job is kind of perfect,” Goldie said.

“The place is quiet, and super peaceful. My boss is absolutely lovely, and everyone is kind and keeps to themselves. It’s been perfect.

The interview’s tomorrow at eleven, but between us?

It’s a formality. The job’s yours if you want it. Pinkie swears.”

Nell’s throat tightened. Her eyes stung, sudden and sharp. She blinked hard and looked down at their hands on the table—one covered in cheap lotion, the other in rings and constellation polish.

“What’s wrong?” Goldie asked softly.

“Nothing,” Nell said, and then: “I just...don’t know where I’m going to live yet. I can’t keep staying at that hotel, that much I know.”

Goldie withdrew her hand quickly, her eyes widening. “Wait. I knew there was something—I saw a post somewhere—”

She dove into her purse, pulled out her phone, and began tapping on it like she was defusing a bomb. A few seconds passed, and then she whooped.

“ I was right! ” She spun the phone around and set it in front of Nell with a triumphant grin. “Greymarket Towers. There’s a vacancy.”