“Violet Elizabeth Fox.” I plucked the girl’s driver’s license out of her wallet and passed it to Jo-Jo.

The dwarf scanned the laminated card. Her frown deepened, and bits of blue mud flaked off her cheeks and settled on her pink housecoat. “She lives up on Ridgeline Hollow Road.”

“Do you know her?” Finn asked.

Jo-Jo shook her head. “No, but I’m pretty sure I know the crotchety old bastard who’s her grandfather.”

10

10

Finn and I looked at each other. “Grandfather?” we asked in unison.

Jo-Jo nodded. “Warren T. Fox, of the Ridgeline Hollow Foxes. The girl looks a fair bit like him in the face. I see it, now that the blood’s gone.”

“And who is this Warren T. Fox?” I asked.

“He used to be a friend of Fletcher’s,” the dwarf said.

“But they had a falling out a long time ago. Haven’t spoken since, to my knowledge.”

Jo-Jo stared at Violet, who was still unconscious in the chair. An emotion flickered in the dwarf ’s pale eyes. Regret.

I wondered why. Jo-Jo shook her head. More mud mask flaked off her face.

“C’mon,” the dwarf said. “Let’s make the poor girl comfortable, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

———

Since Jo-Jo was stronger than either Finn or me, she picked up Violet, carried the girl into the downstairs den, and arranged her on an overstuffed sofa. I pulled off Violet’s bloody jacket and shoes; then Jo-Jo covered her with a soft, warm quilt. The dwarf trudged into the downstairs bathroom to wash the blue mud off her face. I stepped through the doorway that led into the kitchen.

Most people went straight to Jo-Jo’s salon when they came to the house, but my favorite room had always been the kitchen. A skinny room with a rectangular butcher’s block table set in the middle surrounded by several tall stools. Appliances done in a variety of pastel shades ringed three walls, while the fourth opened up into the den where Violet Fox snoozed. Runelike clouds could be found everywhere, from the placemats on the table to the dish towels piled next to the sink to the fresco that covered the ceiling. When I was younger, I used to lie on the kitchen floor for hours and stare at the painting on the ceiling, pretending the clouds really were moving. One of the few childish fancies I’d allowed myself after the loss of my mother and older sister.

Finn was already in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of chicory coffee. Jo-Jo always kept a pot on in case Fletcher dropped by. Now that the old man was gone, Finn drank his share—and then some. I breathed in, enjoying the warm, comforting caffeine fumes that always reminded me of Fletcher Lane. Then I went over to the refrigerator, pulled open the door, and peered inside.