cut he received while breaking into the house. “But what did you do ?”
“Nobody believed me! What was I supposed to do?”
“You don’t realize what you’ve done.” I was past anger. I was disappointed. And scared.
Brixton heard the change in my voice. “It’s not even posted yet,” he said quietly, looking down at the 1950s linoleum floor.
“You’re telling the truth?”
He nodded, still not looking up at me.
My shoulders relaxed and Dorian recited a prayer of thanks in French. I had forgotten I was holding the aloe salve to treat Brixton’s scratch.
Brixton watched me as I treated the wound made by Dorian’s claw. “Why doesn’t it sting?”
“Not everything good for you hurts.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled so quietly it was barely audible.
“You don’t even need a bandage this time,” I added.
“He would have killed me if you hadn’t come in.”
“He knows not what he says,” Dorian said, flapping his wings in what could only be described as a huff. “I would never hurt a child.”
“Only an adult who was here to fix the house,” Brixton said, his voice defiant.
Dorian gasped. “You cannot think—” His head whipped between the two of us. “Zoe, you do not think I was responsible for that poor man’s murder, do you? You cannot think I would do such a thing.”
Before I could decide what to do about either of them, a burst of knocking sounded at the front door. Wonderful .
“Stay here,” I said. “Both of you.”
Looking out the peephole in the front door, I saw a young woman with long blond hair, several strands in messy braids woven with flowers at the ends. She held a plate of cookies in her hands. Friendly new neighbor?
“I bet it’s my mom,” Brixton said from behind me. “She said she wanted to thank you for not pressing charges against me. I never know if she’s going to follow through on anything, so I didn’t know if she’d really show up.”
She knocked again. Brixton stepped past me and looked through the peephole.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s her.”
A quick survey of the room assured me Dorian was gone, so I opened the door. Brixton’s mom’s smile was powerful enough that under normal circumstances it would have brightened up a room, but at that moment it was only strong enough to make the tension bearable.
“Zoe!” Instead of handing me the platter of cookies in her hand, she set it on the floor and enveloped me in a warm hug. “Thank you for looking out for my pumpkin.”
“Mom,” Brixton said.
Brixton’s mom let go of me and gave her son an even bigger hug. Even on the chilly overcast day, she was barefoot. She stood on her tiptoes as she hugged her son. Before letting go, she kissed his forehead, causing him to turn bright red. Even if what Blue had said was true about Brixton’s mom not always being there for her son, Brixton certainly wasn’t lacking in physical affection.
“I’m Heather,” she said. “And these—“ she paused and picked up the tray of cookies, “are my famous vegan oatmeal cookies.”
“You told your mom about my being vegan?” I asked Brixton. I hadn’t realized he’d paid attention to that fact. And, mo re importantly, I wondered what else he’d told his mom and others about me. Had he told the truth that he hadn’t uploaded the video of Dorian on his phone?
Heather gave me an even bigger grin. “Brix, you didn’t tell me that!”
“Um, yeah,” Brixton said. “Now you two can be BFFs or something. So, can we go now?”
“I’m not a strict vegan,” Heather said. “That would be tough, seeing as I don’t cook much. These cookies are the one thing I do well. The dinner you’re cooking smells delicious.”
The scent of the food Dorian had been cooking did smell mouth-watering. He was using a common herb combination of marjoram, rosemary, and thyme to bring out the flavors of the winter vegetables. I al so recognized the scent of other herbs that were transforming the dish into
“Nobody believed me! What was I supposed to do?”
“You don’t realize what you’ve done.” I was past anger. I was disappointed. And scared.
Brixton heard the change in my voice. “It’s not even posted yet,” he said quietly, looking down at the 1950s linoleum floor.
“You’re telling the truth?”
He nodded, still not looking up at me.
My shoulders relaxed and Dorian recited a prayer of thanks in French. I had forgotten I was holding the aloe salve to treat Brixton’s scratch.
Brixton watched me as I treated the wound made by Dorian’s claw. “Why doesn’t it sting?”
“Not everything good for you hurts.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled so quietly it was barely audible.
“You don’t even need a bandage this time,” I added.
“He would have killed me if you hadn’t come in.”
“He knows not what he says,” Dorian said, flapping his wings in what could only be described as a huff. “I would never hurt a child.”
“Only an adult who was here to fix the house,” Brixton said, his voice defiant.
Dorian gasped. “You cannot think—” His head whipped between the two of us. “Zoe, you do not think I was responsible for that poor man’s murder, do you? You cannot think I would do such a thing.”
Before I could decide what to do about either of them, a burst of knocking sounded at the front door. Wonderful .
“Stay here,” I said. “Both of you.”
Looking out the peephole in the front door, I saw a young woman with long blond hair, several strands in messy braids woven with flowers at the ends. She held a plate of cookies in her hands. Friendly new neighbor?
“I bet it’s my mom,” Brixton said from behind me. “She said she wanted to thank you for not pressing charges against me. I never know if she’s going to follow through on anything, so I didn’t know if she’d really show up.”
She knocked again. Brixton stepped past me and looked through the peephole.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s her.”
A quick survey of the room assured me Dorian was gone, so I opened the door. Brixton’s mom’s smile was powerful enough that under normal circumstances it would have brightened up a room, but at that moment it was only strong enough to make the tension bearable.
“Zoe!” Instead of handing me the platter of cookies in her hand, she set it on the floor and enveloped me in a warm hug. “Thank you for looking out for my pumpkin.”
“Mom,” Brixton said.
Brixton’s mom let go of me and gave her son an even bigger hug. Even on the chilly overcast day, she was barefoot. She stood on her tiptoes as she hugged her son. Before letting go, she kissed his forehead, causing him to turn bright red. Even if what Blue had said was true about Brixton’s mom not always being there for her son, Brixton certainly wasn’t lacking in physical affection.
“I’m Heather,” she said. “And these—“ she paused and picked up the tray of cookies, “are my famous vegan oatmeal cookies.”
“You told your mom about my being vegan?” I asked Brixton. I hadn’t realized he’d paid attention to that fact. And, mo re importantly, I wondered what else he’d told his mom and others about me. Had he told the truth that he hadn’t uploaded the video of Dorian on his phone?
Heather gave me an even bigger grin. “Brix, you didn’t tell me that!”
“Um, yeah,” Brixton said. “Now you two can be BFFs or something. So, can we go now?”
“I’m not a strict vegan,” Heather said. “That would be tough, seeing as I don’t cook much. These cookies are the one thing I do well. The dinner you’re cooking smells delicious.”
The scent of the food Dorian had been cooking did smell mouth-watering. He was using a common herb combination of marjoram, rosemary, and thyme to bring out the flavors of the winter vegetables. I al so recognized the scent of other herbs that were transforming the dish into
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