Free Withered + Sere (Immemorial Year Book 1) by TJ Klune Page B

the dog’s ears. When he spoke again, it was directed toward Cavalo, though he didn’t look up. “Busy summer?”
    “I lost track of time,” Cavalo said, ignoring the unasked questions.
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Up there? In the prison?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That right.”
    Hank was trying his patience and, aside from his initial assessment of the Dead Rabbit, hadn’t looked at him again. The boy himself still crouched in a defensive position, eyes darting wildly over the growing crowd. His fingers twitched behind his back, moving one after the other, as if he was counting all those in the town who watched him. For all Cavalo knew, he was. It didn’t matter, though. Chances were he wouldn’t be leaving this place except to be buried in an unmarked hole at the edge of the woods.
    “You knew where I was,” Cavalo said, his voice laced with accusation.
    “I did. Even started to go up there a few times.”
    Cavalo could play this game. “Oh?”
    Hank didn’t look away. “You bet your ass. Stopped myself, though. Figured you were old enough to take care of yourself.”
    Cavalo snorted. Hank was only a few years older than himself. And if it’s October , he thought, that means I’m a year older. Christ.
    “Plus,” Hank said, “I couldn’t quite get away from Cottonwood. Not with our new guest here and all.”
    Before Cavalo could ask about that, he saw movement through the crowd and people moved as a woman pushed her way through, eyes like steel, blonde hair plaited down over her shoulder. Her plaid button-down work shirt was opened at the throat, exposing creamy skin. Cavalo watched her throat bob as she swallowed down whatever angry words she had almost let out. He looked at her hands. He’d first been drawn to them years ago because they were unlike most women’s hands he knew. Working hands, they were. Callused and rough. He knew them well, or as well as he allowed himself too.
    Alma Marsh didn’t step out of the crowd, but she knew that he knew she was there. She was alone. Her brother, the constable of Cottonwood, still hadn’t shown himself. Cavalo knew even before he asked.
    “Warren?”
    Alma looked away.
    Hank did not. “Gone, my friend. In July.”
    “How?”
    “Dead Rabbits.”
    But Cavalo knew this already. Somehow. What had the black man said, back in the forest on the other side of the divide?
    You’d think the good folk of Cottonwood would have learned by now. But maybe they need a reminder.
    He looked at Alma again, but she had turned to the psycho. Hate like he’d never seen before filled her eyes. Alma was strong. She was brave. But above all else, she was kind. There was no kindness now. There was only rage. The man wondered what she was capable of, though he thought he knew. Everyone was capable of darkness.
    “Shit,” Cavalo muttered. He didn’t know what else to say.
    “That about covers it,” Hank agreed.
    “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” That wasn’t a fair question. Not by a mile.
    Hank chuckled dryly. “Would it have mattered?”
    Yes , he told himself. It would have mattered. It matters now.
    He felt like a liar. He didn’t answer, but then he didn’t think Hank expected one. Whatever they were—friends, acquaintances—it didn’t matter because Hank knew him. Whether Cavalo liked it or not, Hank knew him as well as anyone could. It rubbed against him the wrong way, but there was nothing that could be done about it.
    The throbbing in his head was back. He realized his face was still crusted with blood. He was probably quite the sight to Cottonwood. It would undoubtedly add to the whispers about him. The bloody man , they’d tell each other later. The bloody secret man.
    He ignored the crowd, though their eyes wandered over him. “You sure it was the Dead Rabbits?” he asked Hank. It was unnecessary, that question, but he didn’t know what else to say. He saw Psycho tense out of the corner of his eye but didn’t know if that was to his words or the growing