Page 19

STACY

T hree days after Sam’s cremation, Dawson doesn’t feel like Dawson anymore.

The small town that once buzzed with casual greetings, familiar laughter, and the comforting murmur of everyday life has fallen quiet. Too quiet. Even the wind feels different—less playful, more solemn, dragging its feet through empty streets like it, too, is in mourning.

Gone are the spontaneous porch gatherings, the impromptu backyard dinners that used to last until the moon crested over the treetops.

Shifters are social by nature—pack-bound, even when not in a pack.

But now? Now they’re all just ghosts haunting their own homes.

People glance away instead of making eye contact.

Once friendly waves are stiff. Greetings are muttered and cut short, as if speaking too long might unleash the grief none of us want to touch.

Sam wasn’t just someone. He was the best of them. There’s this gaping hole where he used to be, and everyone’s afraid to get too close to it. But in my heart—in the stillness I carry—I’m clearer than I’ve ever been.

Somehow the grief sharpens my thoughts. Slices away the noise.

I know what I need to do—where my place is now.

In loss I find what matters most. I split my time between Ray and Erica, but focus especially on Erica.

She’s unraveling, thread by thread, and I’m trying to hold her together with the gentlest hands I can manage.

I scrub dishes while she stares out the window, lips pressed tight. I sweep while she folds laundry with shaking fingers. I tidy while she refuses to eat. And when the storms inside her break through—because there is only so long she can avoid them—I anchor her.

“There’s nothing left for me here,” she says one night, voice barely a breath above the hum of the refrigerator. “Being around his family is painful.”

I should press. Challenge her. We used to dissect decisions like this together, debate them until every angle had been uncovered. But now, she’s this fragile, grieving thing, and I can’t risk pushing her over the edge. Erica’s always been passionate. Sharp. Bright.

But when she’s this emotional, logic slips right through her fingers.

I know from long experience that talking to her when she is like this is like trying to hold water in my hands.

All I will get is soaked and empty. She’s not ready for that conversation.

And I can’t argue with someone who is drowning.

I pull her into a hug and hold her while she cries.

By the fourth day, I’m running on adrenaline and silence—the kind that clings to your skin and makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

I’m on my way to refill the kettle for yet another cup of tea when someone slams the against the front door.

It’s not a knock—it’s a series of five hard slams, each one more frantic than the last.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, rushing to the door to find out what is so violently important.

I whip the door open, heart hammering, and find Monica. She’s wild-eyed, breathless, like she ran all the way from the valley. She has a gray dossier clutched to her chest like it might fly away if she loosens her grip. I stare at her not comprehending what she’s doing.

“I am… pissed,” she says, brushing past me into the kitchen.

I blink after her, slowly shutting the door as I try to process what’s happening.

“I can see that. What’s going on?”

“You need to sit down.”

That does nothing to ease the tension knotting my shoulders or the headache forming behind my eyes, but I pull out a chair anyway, my stomach turning leaden.

“You’re scaring me, Mon.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she says, slapping the folder onto the counter but not taking her hands off of it as if it’s an adder and might strike at any moment. “And honestly, you should be.”

“What are you talking about, Mon?” I ask, my throat clenching so tight I have to force each word out individually.

She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, holds it. Exhales slowly, then opens them again, fingers tapping the folder between us. Finally she flips it open and jabs the top piece of paper with her index finger.

“It’s your mother,” she says, her voice flat.

“What about her?” I ask, sinking into the chair because my knees feel wobbly.

“This is her medical chart. The progression of her illness,” she says, pointing again. “It all looks natural—textbook, even. I’ve seen patients deteriorate much faster.”

“Then why are you so upset?” I ask, voice cracking.

She doesn’t answer—just slides her finger to the header at the top of the page, stopping on a bold type set of words.

Cause of death: heart failure.

The words hit with the force of a gut-shot. My fingers seize the edge of the table as the room pitches around me.

“I cashed in one of my last favors to get this from Metro General,” she says, voice tight. “They treated it like top-secret government intel, but someone owed me. I got it.”

“Mon, explain,” I croak, my throat too dry.

“When Catherine first saw Dr. Simon Baker, he diagnosed arrhythmia. Irregular heartbeat. Scary—but treatable. He put her on medication. Nothing worked. No matter what he tried. So he dug deeper.”

I lean in, everything inside me taut and coiled. “And? What did he find?”

“Her blood, Stacy.” Monica’s eyes gleam with dread. “It wasn’t human. Not fully. It had something else—foreign, but bonded. Something human blood should reject, but hers accepted like it belonged. Baker ran the tests six times.”

A chill slides down my spine. I blink and it feels like it’s happening in slow motion.

“Did he figure out what it was?” I whisper.

She shakes her head, slow and grim.

“No. He didn’t. But I did.” Monica leans in. “Because I’ve seen it before—in Raul’s blood. That same anomaly. The same… wolf signature.”

“Mon… what?”

She reaches across the counter, taking both my hands and squeezing them tightly.

“It’s the wolf, Stacy.” Monica’s voice wavers. “Your mom… she was a shifter. Leaving your dad didn’t just hurt her—it killed her.”

I flinch so hard it feels like I’ve been struck. “Oh my God…”

I collapse onto the counter, cradling my head between my hands. Her words echo through me, colliding with memories of my mother—every quiet sigh, every ache she brushed off.

“Stac…she knew,” Monica says, softly. “She knew what she was. I got a hold of Baker himself to find out what’s not in the records.

He said when he brought up the blood test results…

she flipped out. Apparently she threatened to kill his wife and baby if he told anyone.

Said—and I’m quoting him—‘she growled like a goddamn beast and showed me her fangs .’”

“She threatened him to keep him quiet,” I mutter, horror creeping up my spine like cold fingers. “So he’d pretend he was helping her, even though he wasn’t. Couldn’t.”

“He was scared out of his mind. He only talked to me because I begged—and because I swore I’d never say a word.”

Silence thickens around us—heavy and suffocating, like syrup in my lungs.

“I knew it…” Ray’s voice slices through the haze. He’s behind me before I register he’s entered. “I knew she didn’t die of cancer. Not that young.”

“Yeah,” Monica says softly. “You were right. It wasn’t cancer. It was heartbreak. Literally.”

I slam my fists onto the table, teeth gritted. “I want a word with my father.”

“I don’t blame you,” Monica says. Her anger dims into something colder. “He didn’t just leave her. He killed her.”

“Where does he live?” Ray asks before I move.

“Brooklyn,” I snap. “I’ll be back by tomorrow morning.”

Ray plants himself in front of me.

“No way you’re going alone. I’m coming.”

“No. This is mine,” I growl, stepping up to him.

“You’ll still get to face him,” he says, absolutely calm against the rage pulsing in my head. “I’m only the ride. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer, Stac.”

I stare at him. “Ray… you just lost?—”

“I know what I lost,” he barks. “I see it. Feel it. Every damn second. Let me do this. I need to breathe. Just for a bit.”

I exhale, sharp and fast. “Fine. But you don’t interfere. This is between me and him.”

“I promise,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over my chin. That touch—it’s his anchor. Gentle. Steadying. And it breaks something loose in my chest I’m not ready to face.

“Thank you, Mon,” I say, sparing her one last glance. She nods, and I head for the door.

I’ve got unfinished business. And it sure as hell doesn’t involve Monica.

It involves the man who left a ticking time bomb in my mother’s chest and walked away like she meant nothing.

Larry Melvin.

Ray and I hit the road, the mountains shrinking behind us like ghosts fading into the rearview. The rage inside me burns hot and sharp, coiled beneath my skin like wire, but even through the fury, I feel him—quiet, steady, haunted.

Grief clings to Ray like smoke. I see it in the rigid line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the wheel too tight. In the silence between us, his pain speaks louder than words. Sam’s death is carved into him. It mirrors the hollow ache I carry in my own chest.

Still… he’s here. Driving me toward the confrontation I can’t avoid.

Toward a truth sharp enough to cut bone.

I told him not to come. That this was mine.

My fight. But Ray didn’t flinch. He’s not here for closure or vengeance.

He’s here because this is who he is—loyal, unwavering, willing to shoulder weight that isn’t his, just to keep me from breaking under it.

And God, I wish I could say something. Reach for his hand. Let him know how much that means. But I can’t. Not yet.

My heart is scorched earth. There’s no space for tenderness, no safety in softness. Not until I look the man who abandoned my mother in the eye.

Not until I burn him down to the truth.