Page 69 of Found by the Pack

And just like that, the color I painted tonight feels farther away.

CHAPTER 17

Shepard

By the time I get to the library, Marjorie’s already in her spot at the front desk, her floral cardigan buttoned all the way up despite it being one of the warmer days we’ve had in weeks. She’s got that particular air of someone who’s been in this building longer than the furniture, and she treats me—her part-time librarian, full-time scapegoat—with a mix of fondness and barely concealed bossiness.

“Morning, Shepard,” she says without looking up from her mug of tea. “You should’ve gone to the bonfire last night.”

“I heard.” I set my bag down behind the counter and glance at the clipboard schedule.

She leans back in her chair and eyes me over the rim of her mug. “We had people from out of town coming in just for it. Even a few from up north. Music, dancing, more booze than was probably wise.”

I laugh. “Sounds like it got a little out of hand.”

“Oh, it did,” she says with a smirk that makes her look ten years younger. “Some of the shopkeepers are already complaining about broken flowerpots and missing lawn chairs.”

I picture Gabe at the cliffs, trying to police half-drunk twenty-somethings with a bonfire at their backs. “Maybe I should’ve gone. Just for the entertainment value.”

She gives me a look that says she knows exactly why I didn’t go—too much work, too much routine.

I pull the cart toward the back room, where stacks of unsorted donations and half-empty boxes wait for me like neglected houseplants. The “local history” section Marjorie mentioned isn’t just books about Driftwood Cove; it’s decades of personal archives.

Church cookbooks with handwritten notes in the margins. Town council minutes from the seventies. Yellowed photographs of people nobody alive can name anymore.

The board meeting she’s so focused on is scheduled for the end of the month. The library’s been pushing for an expansion for years now—more space for digital archives, a bigger community room, proper climate control for the older paper records.

The Driftwood Cove Beautification Initiative has already gotten grants for new signage, landscaping, and a string of murals across town, and Marjorie is convinced—utterly convinced—that if we can tie the library’s renovations to that effort, we might finally get the funding we’ve been scraping for.

She’s not wrong. The mayor loves a project that photographs well, and nothing says “picturesque small-town charm” like a library front with fresh paint and a heritage plaque.

I’m halfway through sorting a box of donated paperbacks when she calls from the front, “Millie’s here!”

Millie breezes in wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, cheeks flushed pink, hair in a messy bun that’s holding on by sheer willpower. She’s nineteen, maybe twenty, and still has the kind of energy you can only get from being young and a little reckless.

“You look… cheerful,” I say, which is my polite way of noting she’s clearly still riding out the aftereffects of last night’s drinking.

“I’m alive,” she says with a grin, setting her tote bag on the desk. “Barely.” She glances around like she’s making sure no one’s listening. “That bonfire was insane. I think half the town was there.”

“Marjorie already gave me the highlights,” I tell her. “Broken lawn chairs, missing flowerpots, questionable dancing.”

Millie giggles. “That’s accurate.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small stack of hardcovers, spines cracked but still intact. “I found these for you.”

I take the top one, turning it over in my hands. The cover is worn, the title pressed in gold:A Visual History of Driftwood Cove. I glance at the others—collections of paintings, old black-and-white photographs, and a battered volume of local folklore.

“Where’d you find these?” I ask.

“In my grandma’s attic. She was going to toss them, but I told her you’d want them for the library.” Millie beams, clearly proud of herself.

“They’re perfect,” I say, and I mean it. They’re exactly the kind of thing that’ll give our local history section the edge Marjorie wants for that meeting.

But more than that, I know exactly who they’ll really be perfect for.

Sadie.

She’s been throwing herself into the mural work like it’s the only thing tethering her here, and maybe it is. These books—especially the one with old sketches of the town—might give her something new to work from. Or at least make her feel like what she’s painting is part of a bigger story.

Marjorie comes over, peering at the books like she’s inspecting rare artifacts. “Millie, these are wonderful.See, Shepard? The Beautification Committee should be commissioning artists for inside spaces too. Imagine a Driftwood history mural along that big empty wall in the reading room.”