დ Elara დ
The call came in just after breakfast. I was rinsing coffee cups in the sink, the smell of fresh bread drifting in from the kitchen where Rowan was pretending not to hover, when my phone lit up with an unfamiliar number. Normally, I would let it go to voicemail. But something about the digits, local, tight, official, made me answer.
“Is this Elara Wynn?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“This is Officer Daniels with the Willowridge Police Department. I was given your number by a David Miller, who works over at The Rusted Fig,” a deep voice said, and I leaned against the counter.
“David…right,”
“We are following up on a motor vehicle incident from last month. It took place just outside town, near the Fig. Does that sound familiar?” he asked, and I frowned.
“No…I mean, I didn’t even kno
