Julie: Those are lovely.
Trevor: mail me one
Sloane: I don’t think frosting travels well.
Trevor: cowardice
Hudson: Ignore him. They look great.
The compliment made me stare at the tray longer than necessary.
It had been less than two weeks. I knew that rationally, this wasn’t the real connection I felt like it was. Every time warmth spread through me while reading the chat, another part of my brain whispered the truth: They didn’t know me. They knew Loany.
They knew the woman who’d traveled through New Mexico, once had red hair, hated tomatoes, and had a tattoo of a pinecone.
This lie was becoming too large to keep pretending it was a misunderstanding. Sooner or later, the real Loany would return. Sooner or later, somebody would want to video call.
I considered confessing to Patty twice. I nearly told Hudson once. But each time, someone sent another message, and the fear of losing them outweighed the guilt of remaining.
Then, on the second Thursday evening, Grandma Ruth posted a large image into the main chat. It was an invitation decorated with trees, mountains, and several wolf silhouettes.
SEASONAL BLACKWELL PACK REUNION
The date was six weeks away.
Grandma Ruth: I KNOW IT’S STILL A WAYS OFF, BUT PLEASE, EVERYONE, RSVP SOON IF POSSIBLE. PUT DOWN WHAT DISH YOU’RE BRINGING AND HOW MANY BEDS YOU HAVE AVAILABLE FOR VISITORS.
Julie: We have the guest room and two air mattresses.
Mason: I’m bringing pasta salad and my girlfriend.
Karen: Who authorized him to bring a non-family member?
Mason: me
Trevor: I have floor in my bedroom
Byron: Everyone has floor.
Trevor: mine is premium
Patty: I’ll bring brownies and can take one person if they don’t mind sleeping under a mural of a crying moon.
People who rarely participated in the chat began appearing. College students. Cousins who had married into other packs. Names I’d only seen once or twice. Several lived hours away and were arranging rides. Others were discussing who would arrive early enough to help set up.
Grandma Ruth: REMEMBER, THIS IS A VERY LONG OVERDUE PACK REUNION, NOT THE MONTHLY BIRTHDAY DINNER. WE HAVE FAMILY AND FORMER PACK MEMBERS COMING FROM OTHER AREAS, SO ANSWER THE BED QUESTION SERIOUSLY.
Grandma Ruth: SLOANE, YOU’RE COMING, AREN’T YOU?
The typing bubble appeared beside Hudson’s name. It vanished just as fast, then returned.
Hudson: It would be good to see you.
My stomach flipped.
Patty sent a direct message at the same time.
Patty: SAY YES.
I stared at the invitation. The room around me was suddenly too quiet, though my phone continued vibrating in my hand.
So far, I had existed inside this family without a face. I had joked with them, helped them, learned their habits, and allowed them to fill spaces in my life I’d stopped acknowledging were empty.
Going to the reunion would mean being seen. It would also surely mean being caught.
I read Hudson’s message again. Then Grandma Ruth’s.
My thumb hovered above the screen, locked between the life I had and the one waiting inside the invitation.
HUDSON
PLEASE DON’T BE MY COUSIN
I had expected to face many problems as the future alpha of a small wolf pack.
Land disputes. Council negotiations. First shifts happening in public places. Teenagers deciding that full moons were an excellent time to test how fast they could run beside moving vehicles.
What I hadn’t expected was one of those problems to be accidentally flirting over text with someone who might possibly be my cousin.
Yet there I was, sitting at my kitchen table at eleven thirty at night, staring at a message from Sloane and wondering whether my unlikely connection to her violated several laws, at least one social taboo, and every principle of basic human decency.
Sloane: For the record, I think carrying two spare car batteries is excessive.
I smiled at the screen before catching myself. That was the problem. The smiling. I’d been doing far too much of it lately.
Hudson: One is mine. One is for emergencies.
Sloane: Technically, yours is also for emergencies.
Hudson: Mine is for my emergency.
Sloane: And the other is for the emergency of anyone within a fifteen-mile radius?
Hudson: Twenty, depending on road conditions.
Sloane: You need a hobby.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the door that connected to my mother’s house.
I had hobbies. I enjoyed trail running. I worked with wood when I had the time. I occasionally read books that had nothing to do with pack history, local development policy, leadership, emergency medical care, or wildlife regulations.
Granted, the last book I’d finished for pleasure was two years ago, and even that one had been about wilderness survival.
Perhaps Sloane had a point.
The fact that I cared what she thought created the larger issue. Sloane was family. Possibly. Nobody seemed entirely sure.
She had belonged to the pack at some point. Grandma remembered her. Karen remembered criticizing her hair. Several people remembered things that sounded plausible when stated individually and became increasingly unhinged when put together.
Our family tree was complicated.
I typed a response to Sloane, erased it, then set my phone facedown. Before I allowed this thing – flirting, or just plain interest – between us to continue, I needed to figure out whether she was related to me.
There were plenty of pack members who shared no blood connection. People were adopted. Shifters from broken packs were absorbed into healthier ones. Julie had joined us through her relationship with Mom, bringing her own history and an entire branch of connections that had nothing to do with the Blackwells.
Sloane could easily be one of those people.
I hoped she was.
Still, I needed evidence. Preferably evidence more reliable than Grandma Ruth saying, “Oh, she belongs to somebody.”
I started with Mom the following morning.
She was at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and reading the county planning documents about Millstone Wildlife Park. The pages were covered in notes, underlined, and several comments that would not have been appropriate to submit to the zoning board. Luckily, the preliminary hearing a week ago had gone well, and it had been agreed to allow nearby residents to gather their thoughts to present at an upcoming meeting.
Julie sat at the table, painting her nails a pale pink that matched her robe. Caldwell ate toast beside her while drawing a wolf in the margin of an old grocery list.
I opened the refrigerator, mostly so I had something to do with my hands. “Do you know how Sloane is related to us?”
Mom didn’t look up. “Loany?”
I paused with one hand on the refrigerator door. “Yeah.”
She lifted her head slowly, eyes narrowing with recognition. “Why?”
“No reason,” I lied.
Julie stopped painting and twisted the cap back onto the nail polish bottle.
Mom lowered the documents. “That answer only gives me more questions.”
“I’m just trying to understand the family tree.”
She raised one eyebrow.
Julie blew lightly across her nails, a smirk playing on her lips. “Interesting.”
Ignoring her, I took out a carton of eggs I had no immediate plans to cook.
Mom studied me for another few seconds. “I don’t think she’s blood.”
Relief moved through me too quickly to trust. “You don’t think?”
“She isn’t a Blackwell.”
I closed the refrigerator door. “That doesn’t mean she isn’t related through the Carpenters or Kipners.”
“She’s not a Kipner,” Julie said.
“How do you know?”
“Your Aunt Karen would have claimed her.”
That was a fair point. Aunt Karen treated blood relations as both social currency and evidence of personal responsibility. If Sloane belonged to her branch, Karen would have mentioned it repeatedly, especially when Sloane corrected the garage sale flyer.
“What about the Carpenters?” I asked.
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