Chapter 2

When Randy had first moved out to Wolf, summer had been in full swing and the weather had been gorgeous. That had been a good thing. It had given him a couple of months to learn all the things he hadn’t known that he didn’t know—how to prime a pump, start a pull-motor, and light a fire. And there’d had been a good many moments of unadulterated fury, frustration, and misery. Yet for every time he’d cursed the blackened ashes in his woodstove that should have been glowing embers, or fought with a leaking drain just to have it let go in his face, he’d also had moments that seemed so beautiful they’d been damn near religious: watching the stars wake up one by one in velvet skies; seeing dozens of Blue Dashers lined up on the porch railing, sunning shimmering wings; catching sight of a Lacewing for the first time and realizing it wasn’t, in fact, just a puff of cotton but an actual living, breathing, flying, walking, little critter.

The beauty of the country and back-to-nature-ness were not, however, the only things that had inspired his move. They hadn’t even been high on the list. While visions of snow-speckled silver wolf manes being shaken against swirling winter winds had its draw, at that point in Randy’s life, it wouldn’t have mattered if Wolf had ended up being swampland. He’d been desperate to get out of Washington, DC. He’d come to the conclusion that he hated concrete. He hated traffic. He hated sound. More than anything else, though, by the time Randy tossed his belongings in the back of a moving van, he’d hated people.

It hadn’t always been that way. There’d been a time in life when Randy had been a great student, a loving son, and a devoted, committed partner. He’d graduated from high school at eighteen, like almost everyone else, spent four years killing himself in a pre-law program, and then immersed himself in three jaw-grinding, brain-splitting years at law school. After passing the bar, he’d hit the ground running, and spent the next six and a half years clawing his way through the courtroom. He’d hounded after every case he could get. He’d waged war like a demon and mastered the art of schmooze. He founded a career that was promising and sustaining. And oh, the saving he did, diligently hoarding his pennies for all the beautiful things that life and Hollywood had told him he would need to survive. The perfect McMansion. The winters in Santa Cruz. Two happy-faced golden Labradors and a matching set of brand-new Beamers in the driveway.

Life was going to be perfect—he’d believed that with every ounce of his body, mind, and soul. All he’d had to do was keep working at it—keep trudging and keep trying. Just keep the head down but the eyes up, and go, go, go. The only thing he hadn’t been able to manage was a way to stop himself from turning thirty.

Yes, his parents had covered the cost of his schooling, and yes, he’d had a good wad of funds squirreled away in the cozy grip of Wells Fargo (thank you, Grandpa Frank on his mother’s side, God rest his soul, for the semi-sizeable, altogether too thoughtful inheritance), but that hadn’t meant shit to the ex that decided after six years of being together, he actually preferred the lean, young arms of receptive twinks over a long-term commitment and happily-ever-after. And though he’d had a job where he was respected—to his face, at least—that hadn’t stopped the crushing weight of self-hatred any time he knew he was helping some jerk make off with somebody else’s cash, kid, or house for no other reason than that’s the way things were when it came to the supposedly-blinded Mistress of Justice.

Exhausted and worn, disillusioned and spent, Randy had done what nobody truly believed he was going to go through with, even after he started researching his plan—he’d picked up and walked away from it all.

He’d found what he’d believed to be the perfect house, on a perfect lot, with the most perfect neighbors. Set back a hundred feet from the road, buried in a pine-spotted lot, and (according to the real estate agent) well-sheltered from all but the worst that winter would throw at it, his little brick bungalow had seemed like a fortress in the middle of a fantasyland.

The town had been as miniscule as he’d expected, but Randy had found that it took no more than a couple of hours of driving to get all but the rarest of supplies. He’d committed himself to his belief that small town life would make up for its lack of amenities—neighbors helping neighbors, cheerful community outreach programs, and Welcome Wagons—and prepared himself for the kind of creepily close-knit lives that he’d read about in Stephen King novels, hopefully without the ghouls and the body count.