Free Written in Stone by Ellery Adams

hear the clamor of insects. She saw the crude shack and felt the moist,
     humid air of the swamp pressing down on her. Again, the old woman’s keen loneliness
     enveloped her. The terrible isolation. The yellowed newspapers. The jars of knickknacks.
     Munin’s gnarled hands pouring tea into chipped mugs. “I just did,” she whispered hoarsely.
     “It doesn’t matter why. I just wanted to.”
    “It does matter,” Rawlings said, surprising Olivia.
    Her patience at an end, Olivia got to her feet, dusting the sand from her shorts.
     “Why do you care that I crossed the harbor and spent an hour with this woman? How
     do you even know about it?”
    Rawlings sighed and stood up. “Because that woman is dead.”
    Hearing this, Olivia dugs her toes into the sand, suddenly needing to feel the gritty
     grains pressing against her skin, to anchor her body to the soft ground.
    Her mind drifted back in time. She recalled Munin’s wrinkled face in the dim light.
     Had she seemed unwell? No. Weary perhaps, but not ill.
    “What are you thinking?” Rawlings asked gently.
    “I was wondering if she died of natural causes.”
    Rawlings cast his gaze out over the ocean. A pair of gulls swooped low over the waves
     and then lifted skyward again, crying in disappointment after discovering that the
     shadow on the water was a piece of seaweed and not an injured fish. “The medical examiner
     said she’d been bitten by an eastern diamondback rattlesnake, but the cause of death
     was drowning.”
    Olivia’s throat constricted. “Where?”
    “The stream behind her house. The park ranger who found her thinks she stumbled down
     the bank and fell in. That she couldn’t think straight because of the pain.”
    Shaking her head in protest, Olivia said, “Munin wore noisy anklets to spook the snakes.
     And my guide, Harlan, told me she kept stores of antivenom, which she made using her
     goat’s antibodies. This . . . It doesn’t sound right.”
    The memory of the gratitude in Munin’s eyes as the starfish necklace settled against
     her weathered palm washed over Olivia. It didn’t seem possible that the old woman
     was gone, and Olivia was distressed by how she’d met her end. This wasn’t the death
     Munin was meant to have. Olivia was certain of that.
    “The case isn’t in my jurisdiction,” Rawlings said, pulling a folded piece of paper
     from his pants pocket and handing it to her. “And the Craven County Sheriff’s Department
     plans to rule it an accidental death. As soon as the deputy in charge has spoken to
     you, that is. He’s already tracked down Harlan Scott and you’re the only loose end.
     When I heard that you’d be called in for an interview, I asked to take a look at the
     case file.” He gestured at the paper in Olivia’s hands. “You’ll see why I’m concerned.”
    Olivia unfolded the sheaf and gasped. It was a color copy of a dirt-encrusted hand.
     The fingers were milky white and bloated to the size of sausages. A thin, muddy chain
     was looped around the middle finger and the pendant at its end had come to rest on
     a stainless steel table. The mud had been wiped off the starfish so that its golden
     surface gleamed beneath the bright, searing light.
    Olivia stared at the image. Why was the necklace in Munin’s hand? Had she been carrying
     it around in her pocket? Had she clung to it as the rattler’s venom wreaked havoc
     on her body? Or was it possible that she was trying to send a message using Olivia’s
     gift?
    Rawlings took Olivia’s trembling hand in his. Gently, he reclaimed the paper and put
     it back in his pocket. He stroked the skin of her palm with his thumb, his eyes filled
     with tenderness.
    “She said that death was coming. That many paths were about to cross in the forest.
     Her forest,” Olivia said quietly. “I thought she was referring to next weekend’s events—the
     powwow and the food fest—things she could have read about in the paper . . .” She
     trailed