Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

“Sadly, yes. It’s a rental, but most of my things are ruined.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

I shrugged, gesturing to the room at large. “This is your summer residence, I assume. It’s about as far as you can get from the club without staying in Pelion.”

“It was in the right price range,” she explained. “You might be shocked to learn that smoothie bar operators must keep to a strict budget.”

I smiled. “Though you’re rich in personality.”

She returned the smile. “This is true.”

“I’m surprised you’re here though. I’d think the chief of police would have plenty of more . . . upscale options.”

“The upcoming blueberry festival,” I said in explanation. “Most places are booked. I own a plot of land, but I’d have to pitch a tent if I wanted to stay there.”

“Ah.” She glanced at Easton, her smile dipping, brow wrinkling slightly. “Do you know my brother?”

Her brother. Aha. “We’ve met,” I said smoothly.

“Oh . . . at the club?”

“No,” I said, not offering more.

“I’m so glad you made it after all!” Betty said, entering the room and smiling as she approached me with a jug of purple liquid.

“Yes. I’ve arrived. Again,” I said.

She laughed. “Indeed. Hooch?” she asked, holding it up as though it was the finest bottle of French champagne.

I glanced at Haven and she gave me a bright smile. I could see the amusement dancing in her eyes.

“It can’t be worse than that smoothie you made me drink,” I muttered, grabbing a cup from the tray on the table next to me and holding it toward Betty while she poured.

Once she’d turned away, I sniffed at it hesitantly. It didn’t smell like a toilet bowl at least.

Haven laughed. “It’s actually pretty good. But it does pack a punch. Be careful.”

I took the smallest of sips. And grimaced. “Holy hell. It tastes like sweetened battery acid.”

Haven laughed again.

I glanced at a potted plant nearby, noticing others flanking the room. I nodded at one of them. “Your refugees?”

She smiled. “Yes. They’re doing beautifully.”

“Probably because of all the company and stimulating conversation.”

Her eyes brightened and she grinned. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.” We stared at each other for several beats, that strange feeling flaring in my chest again. I raised my hand to massage it away when Betty approached.

“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to our most recent resident,” Betty said, placing the now empty jug of hooch down and clapping her hands together. “Chief Travis Hale.” She waved a hand back to me and I glanced around at the welcoming faces, all except one of course. “And now we have a full house,” she said. “All six guest rooms are filled. Isn’t it exciting?”

In addition to Easton and Haven and myself, three others made up the guest list. There was the already infamous Cricket—the woman with the blonde and white hair, and sporting the overalls—and next to her, Clarice, a striking woman with jet-black hair and aqua eyes in town as a vendor at the blueberry festival where she told fortunes and sold crystals to fools and hippies (the description of her customers being my—inevitably correct—judgment alone, and not part of Betty’s introduction). Admittedly though, it was eerie the way Clarice smiled knowingly at me like she’d read my mind.

And then there was Burt, a blind man in town on a birdwatching expedition. “It’s probably more apt to call me a bird listener,” he said, his deep-brown skin crinkling at the corners of his milky eyes.

Betty put her hand on my arm, leaning closer. “Burt became a bird . . . oh dear, oh dear,” she said, frowning, her eyelids fluttering as they’d done earlier upstairs, two fingers hitting her forehead as though trying to shake something loose.

“Enthusiast,” Cricket said.

“No, no,” Betty answered, looking distressed, tapping harder. “Well, yes, but no.”

“Aficionado,” Burt interjected.

She let out a sharp breath, smiling. “Yes! That’s it. Aficionado. Burt became a bird aficionado after the most amazing turn of events,” she said. “He’d lost his will to live after losing his sight. You see, it was very unexpected and he wasn’t adjusting well.”

“Drank myself stupid one night,” Burt chimed in eagerly.

“He made his way up to the top floor of his apartment building and climbed out the window at the end of the hall,” Betty continued.

“I stood on that ledge, the breeze in my face, nothing but silence all around me,” Burt said, seamlessly picking up the conversation. “It was early morning, and not a soul was awake yet on my quiet street. All of a sudden, this bird starts singing. The sweetest song I’d ever heard. It felt like that bird sang just for me. I stepped back inside and a moment later, that birdsong faded and I heard the rustle of wings rising back into the sky.” His eyes teared up as though he was hearing it right that moment. “Saved my life,” he said quietly. “Saved my life.”

Despite the oddity of this whole situation, I felt a small lump form in my throat.

“Burt still hasn’t identified what type of bird it was,” Betty added. “But he will someday,” she said warmly.