Chapter 2 - The Wolves in the WoodsThat night, Marisol set the antique globe on top of the refrigerator, well out of Wren's reach.
"You are never going back to that house," she said, firm as she could manage.
"But Mr. Thackery isn't mean, Mom," Wren whimpered.
"You don't know him, Wren."
"You don't know him either."
The five-year-old's sharp comeback left Marisol without a response for a second. Wren started crying softly. "Everybody says bad things about him, but nobody actually talks to him."
Guilt washed over Marisol in a heavy wave, though it didn't change her mind.
The next morning, the town group chat lit up with frantic notifications. Dinah had posted a shaky video filmed from the edge of the woods — through the trees, two massive gray-furred animals paced around Mr. Thackery's yard.
"Those are wild wolves," one comment read.
"That man is unhinged."
"Somebody call animal control before a kid gets hurt."
Delphine called her sister again. "Get Wren out of that town, Marisol."
"I can't just quit my job and abandon our home because people are telling ghost stories, Delphine."
"Then at least file a report with the sheriff!"
Marisol refused to make a criminal accusation without a shred of actual evidence.
Two afternoons later, she got home from her shift to a house gone dead silent. Wren was nowhere to be found. Sitting on the kitchen table was a note in crooked, childish crayon: Mom, don't be mad. I'm taking blueberry muffins to Mr. Thackery.
Marisol ran down the forest trail as fast as her legs could carry her. When she reached the house, Wren wasn't on the porch. Mr. Thackery stepped out the front door looking genuinely alarmed at the sight of her. "She isn't here, ma'am."
"Don't lie to me!"
"I swear to you, she isn't here!"
Terrified screams echoed from somewhere deeper along the forest path. Dinah and two other neighbors came running through the trees, pointing frantically into the woods. "The girl's out there!"
Marisol's heart dropped straight through the floor. Her legs felt made of lead.
Wren was walking calmly along the dirt trail, holding her small woven basket. And emerging out of the shadows behind her were the two massive gray animals.
Marisol screamed her daughter's name in pure panic. The creatures bounded toward the little girl at a dead run. Dinah started sobbing in horror.
There was no attack.
Both animals skidded to a stop right in front of Wren, tails wagging, sitting down attentively on the dirt path like they'd done it a hundred times.
Wren calmly pulled two pieces of blueberry muffin out of her basket and set them on a flat rock. "Slow down, Bruno. You too, Luna."
Marisol stood frozen solid. Mr. Thackery arrived seconds later, out of breath. "Wren! I have told you never to wander into these woods alone!"
The little girl bowed her head. "I'm sorry."
The supposed wild wolves weren't wolves at all — two rescue wolf-hybrids Mr. Thackery had adopted years earlier. Fully vaccinated, registered with the county, kept inside a fenced property, and loose that afternoon only because a fallen pine branch had torn open a section of chain-link fence.
Marisol turned on the old man, her voice shaking. "I want the truth. Right now."
Mr. Thackery went quiet for a long moment, looking at her, then at the neighbors gathered at a distance. He unlocked his front door. "Come inside, then."
Inside, the house was clean and quiet. Framed photographs of a radiant, smiling woman named Marguerite lined the walls — in some she wore a headscarf, in others she lay in a hospital bed, pale but peaceful.
"My wife had terminal cancer," the old man said softly. "In her final months, she wanted to stay home. I cared for her right here until she passed."
"Why didn't anyone in town see a funeral?" Marisol asked, gentler now.
"Because I brought her back to her hometown," he explained. "Her sister lives there. Her parents are buried in the family cemetery. She wanted to rest beside them."
Marisol looked out the back window toward the shed. "And the freshly dug earth?"
He didn't answer right away. He walked to a wooden sideboard, pulled out a small iron key, and led her back outside to the shed.
Inside, there was nothing sinister at all. Woodworking tools, boxes of children's books, maps, carefully repaired wooden toys, refurbished school desks stacked along one wall.
"I taught middle school for thirty-seven years," he said quietly. "I restore old things and give them to kids who need them."
He lifted a loose floorboard near the workbench, revealing a small metal firebox underneath. Marisol's heart hammered against her ribs. He opened it. Inside sat medical records, death certificates, hospital bills, and several sealed envelopes.
"Keep these if you need to verify any of it with the authorities," he said.
Then he pulled out a yellowed, handwritten letter. On the front, in soft cursive: For whoever eventually demands to know who my husband really was.
"Marguerite wrote this," he whispered. "A few days before she died."
Marisol reached out to take it. At that exact moment, her phone buzzed frantically in her pocket. Dinah had blasted the town group chat again — a crowd of angry neighbors was already heading up the driveway, demanding the old man leave town for good.
Shouts echoed from the front yard. "Come out here!" "We know what you did!"
May you like
Mr. Thackery closed his eyes, heavy with exhaustion. "Not again."
Marisol looked down at the letter in her hands, tore open the envelope, and started reading.
