“That is how time works,” Byron said.
A Kipner aunt opened the cooler and frowned into it. “I thought Sloane was adopted by the Marmells.”
“No,” Julie said. “She just stayed with them.”
“After the mission,” Trevor added.
Karen looked at him. “There was no mission.”
“You don’t know that.”
I adjusted another hay bale and smiled to myself. The details changed every time someone discussed her. Nobody could agree on where she had lived, who had hosted her, why she left, or what she had looked like beyond red hair and occasional exhaustion.
It didn’t bother me, though. I liked knowing more than they did.
I knew she hated poorly designed restaurant menus. I knew she baked when she was anxious and postponed meals until her body protested. I knew her parents could make her doubt herself in less than two minutes, and that she disguised hurt with humor so quickly most people missed it.
I knew what genre of books she preferred.
I knew she played music while working and sometimes stopped replying because a client had pushed her beyond reasonable patience.
And now, I knew what her smile looked like.
That still left a great deal I didn’t know. Where she had actually spent the past several years. Why she avoided talking about those years. What had happened between her and the pack before she disappeared. Why she became quieter whenever anyone referenced her past.
I wanted those answers, but not because the family had turned her history into a series of competing legends. I wanted to know her.
Not Loany.
Sloane.
Aunt Karen made her way through the setup, trying to determine what she would criticize first. She paused near Patty, eyeing the stack of custom-painted denim jackets Patty had brought to show a cousin. “Still lugging those rags around, Patricia? I would think at twenty-four you’d be putting your energy toward a respectable career rather than cluttering up family events with crafts.”
Patty folded her arms, keeping her voice light despite the edge beneath it. “They’re commissioned art pieces, Aunt Karen. People pay me for them.”
“People pay for novelty socks, too,” Karen replied coolly. “That doesn’t make it a legitimate career path.”
Aunt Karen came to stand beside me while I realigned the second row. “You seem a little more invested in movie night than usual.”
“I am.”
“Because of Sloane?”
I shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “She’s our guest. I want to make sure she’s comfortable.”
She lowered her tone. “You don’t find any of this strange? With Loany’s history, I mean?”
“Am I concerned about our family being unable to remember details accurately? No.”
Karen leaned closer. “You know what I mean.”
I straightened.
Karen looked toward the driveway, though no car had appeared. “She’s different.”
“She’s been gone for years, Aunt Karen. Give the poor girl a break.”
“Being gone for years explains changes in hairstyle. Not everything else.”
“What is everything?”
Karen pressed her lips together. There it was. Suspicion without evidence.
“She doesn’t smell familiar,” she said eventually.
I thought of Sloane’s scent. Pine beneath something clean and strangely sterile, almost too neutral for a shifter who’d spent years traveling. I’d noticed it immediately, though I assumed she used strong scent blockers or had learned to erase traces of herself while moving between territories.
“People change products,” I said.
Karen looked at me. “So you’ve thought about it, too.”
I suppressed the childish urge to roll my eyes. “I have a functioning nose.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And a personal interest.”
“Go criticize the food labels,” I said as I moved another hay bale.
Karen huffed and walked away. She stopped at the dessert table and began rearranging allergy cards I knew Julie had checked three times.
Her concern over Sloane stayed with me for several seconds, but then Trevor came running across the lawn in neon armor, and the sight cleared every serious thought from my head.
His latest creation covered him from shoulders to knees in bright crocheted panels. Pink, green, blue, orange, and yellow yarn formed overlapping sections intended to resemble protective plating. A hood with two floppy horns hung down his back. He had crocheted matching wrist guards, though one had already started unraveling.
I gaped at him, trying my best not to laugh.
Trevor spread both arms. “Behold.”
“What the hell is it?” I asked.
“Dragon armor.”
“It looks flammable.”
“It’s acrylic yarn. And everything is flammable if you try hard enough.”
I shook my head. Five littles followed him, each carrying a toy fire truck, plastic sword, or stuffed dragon.
Trevor pulled the hood over his head. “Tonight, I defend the kingdom.”
A six-year-old girl pointed a plastic fire hose at him. “You’re the dragon.”
Trevor considered this. “Yes. And I defend my treasure.”
“What treasure?” the little asked.
He pointed at the dessert table. “Brownies.”
The children accepted the premise immediately.
For the next several minutes, Trevor stomped across the lawn, roaring as the littles chased him with fire trucks. One child made siren noises. Another shouted instructions that contradicted everyone else’s. Trevor fought bravely until three of them surrounded him and declared he had caught fire.
He froze and then threw himself onto the grass. “The flames!” he cried. “They have breached my defenses!”
The children sprayed him with imaginary water.
Trevor rolled dramatically across the lawn, grabbing his crocheted chest plate. “Tell my crafting supplies I loved them!”
One little climbed onto his back. “You’re dead.”
Trevor went limp.
Another child poked him with a plastic ax.
He opened one eye. “Respect the fallen.”
“You’re talking.”
“Final words.”
“You already said final words.”
Trevor closed his eye again. “I had more to say.”
Grandma Ruth watched from her chair, popping piece after piece of caramel corn into her mouth. “That boy needs more supervision.”
Laughing, I checked my phone. Nothing from Sloane. She was ten minutes late.
First ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
She’d probably run into traffic. She lived about thirty minutes away. A slow driver, road construction, or a stop for fuel could change the timing.
At twenty minutes, I began adjusting the projector despite Byron having already confirmed it was ready to go. I changed the focus. Tested the speakers. Repositioned the table by two inches. Checked the cable connections. Anything that kept me from looking at the driveway every thirty seconds.
Patty noticed. She stood beside me, eating popcorn from a paper cup. “She’s coming.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’ve checked your phone eight times.”
“I’m coordinating the event.”
“Through a private chat with Sloane?” she asked.
I put my phone away.
Patty smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. You’re nervous, aren’t you?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You reorganized three hay bales after I watched Caldwell line them up.”
“They needed adjustment.”
“No, they didn’t.”
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