Wolf for Hire

Chapter Nineteen

Judge
Childs wasn't in her judicial robes. Instead she wore a pastel blouse, a
light blazer, tailored dark jeans, and block-heeled sandals—savvy
southern chic. Her salt-and-pepper hair hung shoulder length in a
layered short cut."Um, evening, your honor." My voice cracked. "Surprised to see you here."

She
exhaled through her nose—not quite a sigh, but close. "Just catching up
on paperwork. Tuesday's a federal holiday, after all."

Just my luck.

"But
that begs the question—" She tilted her head, that subtle shift she
always made before cross-examining someone. Or before watching them
embarrass themselves in her courtroom. "What brings you here?"

Yep. Call it.

I swallowed. "I, uh, missed my bus."

She hummed low, considering. "Forgot to check the schedule?"

My face burned.

"I
wasn't planning on taking the bus today," I said quickly. "But my car
just got repo'd barely an hour ago." The words came out sharper than I
intended, but it wasn't like I was in a good headspace at the moment.
Hard for a bag of stress to not sound... well, stressed.

"If
I'm not mistaken, you've known about that repossession order for almost
a month." Childs' tone was even, but pointed. "Did you not make
preparations?"

I
clenched my jaw, biting down the anger that flared up. It wouldn't help
me here. Nothing I said would earn Childs' sympathy—nor did I want it. I
just needed to get out of this conversation before I made it worse.

"Look, your Honor—"

"You're not in court, Miss Avery." The faintest hint of amusement edged her voice. "No need for formalities."

I hesitated. That felt like a trap.

"Look,
Mrs. Childs," I tried again, treading carefully. "I lost my car today. I
was evicted yesterday. I don't have the means to pay for a ride. I'm
staying with a friend while I get my shit together, okay? I'm trying. I am really trying."

The words spilled out sharper than I meant them to. I exhaled hard, cutting myself off before I could start ranting.

The last thing I needed was to lose my temper in front of her.

My
throat burned. Worse, my jaw ached—not just from clenching, but from
the dull pressure of my canines digging into my gums. My teeth hadn't
sat right in my mouth all day, but it hadn't mattered as much because
I'd had my mouth open, panting. Now, I had to keep my mouth
shut—figuritively and literally.

And even if smiling could help ease the tension, it would be both terrifying and painfully ingenuine.

I
pinched the bridge of my nose, using it as an excuse to cover my mouth
as subtly as I could. The last thing I needed was for her to notice my
teeth.

Silence stretched between us. Then Childs sighed.

"I've
actually been meaning to clear something up with you," she said, voice
level but deliberate. "Regarding my recent ruling against you."

My heart stuttered. Childs wasn't one to mince words, but damn if she didn't know how to be blunt.

"You mean the security deposit?" I asked warily.

She nodded. "I got the impression you felt I was unfair in ruling in favor of your landlord."

I
didn't respond. Anything I said would sound petulant, and I refused to
give her the satisfaction of thinking she could lecture me like some
wayward juvenile in need of a lesson.

Childs studied me for a moment. Then: "Do you know what rent acceleration is?"

I frowned. "It means… they can demand all the remaining rent at once, right?"

She nodded. "Your lease contained a rent acceleration clause. Were you aware of that?"

My mouth opened, ready to fire back that I'd scrutinized my lease, but the words stalled.

I
had read it. But I hadn't paid much attention to the violation clauses.
Because, frankly, I never intended to violate my lease.

Childs
took my hesitation as an answer. "Had I ruled in your favor, Ms.
Patterson would have instead filed to hold you liable for the remainder
of your lease in full—six months' rent—on top of the security deposit.
And you'd still have been evicted."

The certainty in her voice made me uneasy.

I blinked. "Wait, if she could have done that, then why didn't she?"

"She would have. But she was more interested in settling things quickly. Better to have you out now
than go through another month or so of litigation. And, so you know, by
settling for your deposit, she can't file any additional claims against
you."

She gave me a pointed look. "Res judicata. I believe you're familiar with the term."

She
had me at a loss, and she knew it. Despite all my cleverness, or
financial savvy, I'd still gotten myself caught in a classic contractual
trap. One that Childs had helped me out of. But I'd been too obtuse to
realize.

And now Childs was bringing home the point.

Why
was it that everyone—even my own mother—seemed to make a habit of
dissecting me? Bringing my failures to light so easily, and then
throwing them back in my face.

Nothing but insult and injury.

"This
was the best compromise you were going to get," Childs continued.
"Patterson inherited several tenants from the previous owner, and this
isn't the first time she's used my court to push one out." A flicker of
distaste crossed her face before her expression smoothed.

I chewed on that, staring at the pavement.

I wasn't sure how to feel about it. I'd still lost the deposit. But… I had half-expected Patterson to come after me for more.

I lifted my head. "So you're saying you were helping me? Why?"

A
small, knowing smile tugged at Childs' lips. "Because a punishment
should serve to correct behavior, not needlessly ruin a person's life."

Oh?
So Childs subscribed to the school of utilitarian justice and I was
being subjected to the rehabilitative qualities of the law?

I could only be so lucky.

I inhaled sharply. "And what about this mandated therapy I can barely afford?"

"You can't afford not
to seek help." Childs gave me a level look, daring me to argue. "And,
if I'm being honest, I doubt you would have sought help unless legally
obligated to."

My mouth snapped shut. I looked away.

She wasn't wrong.

I supposed I shouldn't stay mad at Childs. Like it or not, she had acted in my best interest—within legal means, of course. Or at least, she'd tried.

But the issue was that Childs assumed I was just another citizen at risk of recidivism.

Not a werewolf at risk of recidivism.

Once again, my lycanthropy was at the root of my problems.

Try
as Childs might, if there were laws governing the punishment and
treatment of werewolves—or any supernatural beings in general—they were
well beyond the jurisdiction of civil court. Further, something told me
they wouldn't be centered around a rehabilitation style of justice.

More likely, it'd be one of deterrence. Extreme deterrence. Like something on par with the Salem Witch Trials.

Maggie
shifted closer, stepping just slightly ahead—not quite defensive, but
positioned enough to act as a buffer. I wasn't sure if she was trying to
protect me from Childs or the other way around.

Childs'
gaze flicked down to her. She extended a hand, palm open in greeting.
Maggie hesitated, sniffed, then nuzzled her fingers politely.

"This is the dog that got you evicted?" Childs mused. "Seems a shame."

I almost let her believe that. It wasn't like it would do anything but hurt Ms. Patterson's reputation, and I had no qualms about that.

But something about lying to Childs—even by omission—felt wrong.

"She's not mine," I admitted. "She belongs to my friend. I'm watching her while they're out of town."

"I see." Childs' response was neutral, but there was something… unsatisfied about it.

She studied Maggie's collar, raising an eyebrow. Maggie licked her hand.

"Actually…" I hesitated. "I'm hoping Sandy—my friend—can help me with my dog."

Childs gave me an inquisitive look. "How so?"

I shrugged. "Training."

Not exactly a lie. Just… not the whole truth.

I
might not be under oath, but lying outright—especially to a judge—felt
like tempting fate. After what I'd been through in the past two days, I
wouldn't have been surprised if Childs had some preternatural ability to
detect bullshit.

Then again, that could just be Katherine's conditioning talking.

But
Childs probably didn't need supernatural gifts to spot a lie. Her
profession alone—and years of experience—had doubtlessly honed her
skills as well as any magic. She'd probably seen it all.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

She seemed puzzled but let it drop. "So you're staying with your friend. Where exactly, might I ask?"

I hesitated. No way was I giving her Sandy's exact address. But, I supposed a general answer wouldn't hurt.

"West Ashley." I muttered.

Childs
hummed, considering. Then, after a pause, she said, "I live in West
Ashley as well. It shouldn't be too much of a detour to give you a
ride."

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

"No."
The word shot out too sharp, too fast. I scrambled to soften it. "I
mean—I appreciate the offer, but that doesn't seem appropriate."

One brow lifted. "How so?"

I swallowed. "You're—you're a judge. My judge. Multiple times. It feels—" too dangerous, my brain supplied, but I didn't say that—"improper."

She actually laughed.

"Again,
we're not in court, Miss Avery. And I am currently off the clock. I'm
just a normal citizen exercising my right to be a Good Samaritan."

I had no real counter to that. And it wasn't like I had the luxury to be picky.

I needed a ride. Direly.

Still,
every nerve in my body screamed that getting into a car with her was a
terrible idea. That I'd be better off holing up in and abandoned
building and taking my chances with the moon.

But
I'd been raised in the South. And if there was one thing you didn't do
in the South, it was refuse the generosity of an older Southern
woman—especially one wielding authority. You swallowed your pride,
accepted their goodwill, and braced yourself for the unspoken obligation
that came with it.

It was a trap. A polite, insidious, inescapable trap.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Thank you. I, uh, appreciate it."

Childs gestured toward her car, and Maggie and I followed dutifully.

Childs
drove a Lexus GX—2017, if I had to guess. The kind of car I'd have put
at the top of my wish list—if I had the money for such things. And Consumer Reports
just ranked it one of the most reliable used luxury SUVs for under 20k.
So, it was either that or a Subaru Crosstrek—a more practical, compact
SUV, with better gas mileage, four-wheel drive, and a more feasible
price range.

But the Lexus was, well... nicer.

Much nicer.

And
2017 was a good year to have. Almost all car built during the pandemic
had corners cut, losing out on advanced electronics due to supply-chain
issues.

This one, though, would have all the bells and whistles.

I opened the door for Maggie, then climbed in.

As I buckled up, Childs pulled up the GPS on the dashboard console and glanced at me expectantly. "Got an address for me?"

I gave her the address to the Walmart on Bees Ferry. She raised an eyebrow.

"It's easier to get to," I said. "And just a short walk from home."

Again, not a lie.

I
heard Childs quietly snort, and saw her shake her head in a slow,
subtle gesture—as if something had either amused or disappointed her.
She typed in the directions, but, before she allowed the navigation to
plot a course, she zoomed out—fingers panning over the map—dragging it
away from the Walmart lot, then dropping the navigation pin down nearby.

Right on top of Sandy's house.

The navigation plotted a course for Wolff's Lair Rd.

My stomach dropped. It seemed Judge Childs knew who Sandy was and where she lived.

Not a good sign.

It
had already occurred to me that Sandy had a bit of a reputation around
West Ashley—given the reaction of the Costco shoppers to her dog van,
and Patty's response when I'd used her name on the church membership
form. So it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise that Childs, of all people, might have pieced together which Sandy I was talking about.

But
the fact that she had done it this quickly, with so little information,
told me less about Childs deductive skills and more about how Sandy had
earned her reputation.

You didn't get on a judge's radar for being well-behaved.

For someone like me, who was trying to keep her nose out of trouble, this did not bode well.

"So you, um, know Sandy…" I trailed off.

"I
know her entire family, Miss Avery," Childs said as she backed out of
the parking space. She said this matter-of-factly, the way I would if I
were trying to sound professional about a topic I had very ambivalent
feelings about.

Normally,
I tried to stay clear of topics like this. Especially when I wanted to
be on good terms with someone. But now I'd somehow—against all hope and
reason—stumbled into what felt like the conversational equivalent of a
minefield.

One wrong step…

Fortunately, Childs seemed eager to keep talking, so I just shut up and listened.

"I
used to be close colleagues with Elenore, Sandra's aunt. We even went
to law school together." Childs continued as she pulled out of the lot
and merged into traffic.Soon we were on Cosgrove Ave, the main road connecting North Charleston to West Ashley.

My brain had stalled.

Childs knew Sandy's aunt. Nevermore's original owner. And they even worked together.

"Was Elenore a judge like you?" I asked, unsure of what else to say.

"No,"
Childs said, eyes on the road. "She was a state prosecutor. We both
were, though I eventually took up the mantle of judge."

"So… what was she like?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. Wary I may be, but curious I was.

"Good at her job. And one of the best cross-examiners I've ever known."

That was… something to process.

I'd
known next to nothing about Sandy's family before all this, and now it
turned out her aunt had been a prosecutor. I thought back to what
Nevermore had said about her—the way she could compel people with words
alone. The idea of being interrogated by someone like that made my skin crawl.

And I thought Katherine was scary.

"Did you know JT and Sandy, then?" I asked.

Childs
nodded. "Of course. After Elenore passed away, I was made the trustee
of her estate and their legal guardian until they were old enough to
inherit the house."

My mouth went dry.

"Huh. Small world." I said, meekly.

Inside, I was screaming.

So,
the judge presiding over my case had been the de facto godmother of the
witch I was working for. Which meant she had a vested interest in
Sandy's well-being.

Which meant she would absolutely care about the fact that Sandy's prospective roommate was a werewolf.

I pressed my knee against my tail to stop it from twitching, my anxiety clawing up my ribs.

If
Childs found out what I was—and that I was staying in the home of
someone she personally cared about—her goodwill wouldn't just evaporate.
It could backfire.

She had the power to make my legal situation hell. Worse than hell.

I'd
been walking a tightrope ever since I was cursed with lycanthropy, and
Childs had, as I'd come to find out, been one of the few people helping
me keep it steady.

And she could cut that line whenever she wanted.

I needed to get away from her. Every second I spent in this car, the more likely I was to bring my entire world crashing down.

I glanced at the navigation screen. ETA: ten minutes.

Just had to hold out for ten more minutes.

Then I'd be home. I could breathe. And have enough time to prepare for moonrise.

Unless—

What
if JT was already home? What if he invited her in for tea? This was the
South, and when an old family friend stopped by, you invited them in.
That's just what you did.

No.
No, JT was at work. He had surgeries, or consults, or something. He
wouldn't be there. Sandy wouldn't be there. There'd be no reason for
Childs to linger.

I
forced myself to focus on the road. The traffic. The rhythm of
headlights streaking past. If I spiraled too hard, I'd trigger a shift. A
threat, even a perceived one, would still get the wolf's attention. And
the last thing I needed was to lose control in the passenger seat of a
moving car.

Breathe.

Remember the exercises Dr. Anderson taught you. Steady breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus on the sensation. The motion.

My pulse slowed. My chest loosened.

As long as Childs didn't hit me with another world-shattering reveal, I'd be fine.

But the cosmos was cruel.

As if on cue, Child said, "You know, I also knew your mother. She was an expert witness in several cases I oversaw."

I blinked. "My mom?"

Childs nodded. "Yes. Though, more often, she was the plaintiff."

"Why would a horticulturist be called in as an expert witness?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

It didn't track. Especially In civil court, of all places? There weren't even juries in those cases.

And as a plaintiff to boot?

Katherine
could be a bit litigious, sure, but I'd never heard of her suing anyone
outside of that insurance dispute over a fender-bender.

Childs gave me a puzzled look. Then, something clicked in her expression.

"No, I meant Tessa. Your biological mother. She was an auditor for the state, if you recall."

And
just like that, my pulse was jacked once again. This conversation had
taken such a sudden turn to the personal that it had given me whiplash.
And trying to process this while already on the verge of a panic attack
was like trying to swallow a pill to save yourself from choking.

It just didn't work.

But Childs wasn't done.

"When I was still a circuit court judge, she testified in multiple cases I oversaw—mostly in regards to financial fraud."

I didn't know how to respond to that.

It
wasn't like I never thought about my mom—I had. Plenty. I became an
accountant because of her. In a field that, at the time, was very much a
boys' club, she'd climbed her way up the ranks and built a reputation
for herself. And then, as if in revenge for the opposition she'd faced,
she became the thing all accountants feared most: an auditor.

For the state, no less. Which was basically like working for the IRS—but you got to work more locally.

She'd taught her once-misogynistic colleagues to tremble
in her presence. Because when you worked on government payroll, you
were handling taxpayer money, and you'd be damn sure that every cent was
tracked—for state agencies at least.

And
if that meant they'd have to dig through waste bins to find a missing
receipt from a work trip, you could bet your ass she'd make them do it.

All expenses funded through taxes would be accounted for. Down to the penny.

And
there was nothing quite like making the man who once copped a feel dive
through a dumpster. The ultimate embodiment of success.

It was no exaggeration to say that I idolized my mom.

But why was Childs bringing her up? Now?

Was
this some kind of judgment? A reminder that my mother had been
competent, reliable, someone who actually contributed to society—while I
was a disgrace in comparison?

No,
that didn't fit Childs' style. She could be blunt, even harsh, but she
wasn't petty. And she wasn't the type to make passive-aggressive jabs.
It was almost like she was trying to have... a normal conversation with
me.

It was an alien feeling.

I
thought back to what she'd said in court, and what she'd spoken of
earlier. Maybe she actually believed I still had some of my mom's
potential. Maybe, in some baffling, incomprehensible way, she not only
wanted me to get my life together but wanted to help me do it. As if she were an old friend of the family.

And that was the worst thought of all.

Because it meant she saw something in me worth saving.

Which meant she had significantly more room for me to disappoint her.

The higher you're lifted, the harder you will fall.

I wished this car ride would end. I wished this entire day would end. My head hurt. My stomach was empty. I couldn't think straight like this.

Still,
Childs had known my mom. And she seemed to be inviting me to talk about
her, like she knew I'd want to. Like she understood that this person,
who had once been so central to my life, and had left it too soon, was
someone I'd be eager to learn more about.

And, yet again, she wasn't wrong.

But
how was I supposed to approach something like that? Now of all times
when I was barely keeping it together? For Childs, this was just a
casual car ride, a moment of connection between two acquaintances with
more in common than they'd initially thought.

For
me, it was the precursor to a complete mental—and technically
physical—breakdown. I was quite literally a wolf wearing a human-suit,
and I was tearing at the seams.

The best conversation outcome I could hope for was coming across as distant, maybe even apathetic. Like I didn't care.

Which would, of course, give Childs the wrong impression.

What I needed was a raincheck. Some way for me to deflect and talk about this another time.

Easier said than done.

But, as I futilely tried to formulate a plan, I was ultimately saved by the bell.

Or rather, my phone. Which rang.

I would've ignored it, but I recognized the ringtone I set for JT—Robert Palmer's Bad Case of Loving You.

Doctor, doctor, give me the news...

What can I say? I was a sucker for the classics.

JT was calling me back, so, naturally, I had to pick up. I'd stuffed my phone in my bag earlier after Childs had ambushed me, which meant I had to dig for it.

I unzipped the bag.

And immediately regretted it.

Because
Elmo, whom I had completely forgotten about thanks to Childs' dropping
existential crises into my lap, took the opportunity to stretch his
legs.

As an arboreal tarantula, that meant finding something to climb.

That something being me.

And, boy, did he move fast.

One moment, I was reaching into my bag. In the next, he was scaling the side of my face.

"Shit—Elmo, no!" I blurted.

Which, in hindsight, was yet another poorly thought-out decision.

Because
my reaction, while more tempered than before, thanks to my exposure
therapy, still caught Childs' attention, and she turned to look.

And her reaction was... not so tempered.

It was, in fact, exactly what you'd expect from someone who sees one of the world's largest tarantulas scuttling around inside their car.

She screamed.

The car jerked.

Tires hit the gravel shoulder—

And we went nose-first into a ditch.