“That’s easy,” she says, and I feel her approach—my awareness of her pricks along my skin. “My special edition Lord of the Rings.”

When I look at her, she’s standing just a few steps away.

“What’s wrong?” I finally ask, frustrated by how distant she feels. She wasn’t like this prior to last night, but now she’s looking at me like I’m the enemy, and I don’t like it. “You’re…different.”

“I haven’t changed at all,” she says.

I twist toward her, closing the distance, but she backs away.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Instead of answering, she says, “Is everyone in this town a death-speaker?”

“I’m not a death-speaker.”

“If you aren’t a death-speaker, then what are you?”

This conversation is not going the direction I need it to.

“Where’d you learn about death-speakers?” I ask instead, but as soon as that question’s out of my mouth, I have an answer for it. “Thane.” Her eyes darken at my disdain. “So he’s why I’m suddenly a bad guy?”

“Actually, I learned about death-speakers from Natalie,” she says. “Thane just clarified, and you’re a bad guy because you had a scythe under your jacket last night.”

My gut tightens. “Are you absolutely certain you know what you saw?”

“Don’t patronize me. Everyone knows what a scythe is. Question is, are you just a weirdo who likes to carry a weapon, or are you—”

Her voice falters, eyes burning, but she’s given me what I need.

“Or am I what, Anora?”

Her chest rises and falls quickly, and it’s hard not to be aware of her when she’s this close. I should step away, leave, but this proximity untangles my chest.

“You’ve seen the blade before.”

And I’m betting the carrier was named Chase Lockwood. And if she knows Chase, then that means…

Before we can continue our conversation, Anora’s mom clears her throat. I step away, and we turn to face Jayne in the doorway.

“Lunch is ready.”

Jayne waits at the door until Anora and I leave the room in front of her.

Lunch is awkward. I’m not sure if it’s because Jayne thinks Anora and I were making out or because Anora avoids my eyes from across the table as she eats. I decide not to let her keep me from enjoying free food.

“This meal is delicious, Ms. Silby.”

She smiles, the crow’s-feet on either side of her eyes deepening. “Thank you, Shy. Cooking is a bit of a passion of mine.”

“My mom loves cooking too,” I say. “Nothing frozen ever comes into our house.”

“We’ll have to have your mother and father over for dinner sometime.”