I’m Not Afraid of Wolves
When the sliding door locked, I turned my gaze onto Sara and watched her, waiting for her to bring up her story. I wanted her to be the one who talked first, if only because I didn’t want to prod her too much if she was traumatized by whatever this was.
But if she was going to try to weasel her way out of talking to me, she had another thing coming.
“Wow,” she murmured softly. “Look at that full moon.”
I picked up a note of fear in her voice. “Yeah,” I said cautiously. “It’s beautiful.”
“I used to think so.” Sara turned around and looked back at me. Her eyes were wide with fright and the rigidity told me something else was going on with her.
Finally, my patience snapped.
“Sara, what’s wrong?”
“You won’t believe me,” she repeated, using the same phrase she used when we were putting food away.
I crossed my arms. “I think you’ll be surprised.”
Sara’s jaw worked. “I think I’m going to need more wine for this.”
I held up my glass. “Just drink mine.” Don’t think I’m letting you back in the kitchen that easily. She’d run away and hide and hoped I’d forget about it. She wanted to talk about it, but she was too afraid to.
She took my glass and downed the rest of it in one chug. I raised my eyebrows in surprise.
“Okay,” she said, as if warming herself up for our talk. “Okay.”
“It will be all right,” I told her.
“No, it won’t.” Tears started filling her eyes. “Christine, do you believe in werewolves?”
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