Chapter 33. This Isn't Forgiveness

Josie's POV

He got down off the tailgate and stood on his side of the gate, and I stood on mine, and for a long moment neither of us said anything.

He looked terrible. Seventeen hours in the rain will do that, even to a wolf. His shirt was stuck to him. There were shadows under his eyes like the night in the cellar, and his hands, when he finally moved them, were shaking with cold.

He didn't say sorry. I'd been braced for it, all the way down the drive. He didn't say it.

He held out a notebook through the bars instead. Old brown leather, soft at the corners, swollen with damp.

"What is it?"

"Everything I know," he said. "About the ridge. About my father on that horse, and Marsh with the torch, and my mother at the creek. The tonic. Pettigrew.