Regardless of how horrible Mr. Clayton’s father had been, he’d had good taste when building his “dog house.” The interior was spectacular: elaborate crown molding and hand-carved arched doorways (only two in the house, belonging to the bathroom and bedroom). She loved it here, and her love had deepened when she watched her belongings—her father’s belongings—move inside. Now she could call it home. Now, when she enters the narrow living room from the front door and sees the cherry-wood rocking chair and antique bookshelf and Persian rug, it will be hers. Not the dog house.

Before they had finished, Arne surprised her with a visit. He’d popped his head in the door when she’d been helping one of the movers—Jerry, who was short and covered in lots of body hair—position her hutch. Caught by surprise that Arne was home on a Sunday afternoon, rather than in Portland with Mr. Clayton, her first response had been, Arne, what are you doing home? He’d chuckled, telling her even Mr. Clayton took weekends sometimes.

Even more surprising was Arne’s casual slacks and Polo shirt. He’d even assisted where the movers would let him, and after they’d left, twenty minutes ago, he’d helped her rearrange things they hadn’t gotten right. It was hot now, the day bright and warm, and not only did she sweat, but Arne’s forehead glistened. She offered him some water, since she hadn’t bought anything else to drink yet, and together they went outside on her back porch, sitting in the two chairs that had been stacked under a cover. She loved the porch, the way it was hidden from the front of the house but almost the same size as the house itself. A raised, wooden deck, with four steps and a large shingled covering, perfect for the rainy days when she might want to sit outside.

In the shade, they drank their water, and Elizabeth admired her forest of a backyard, the way the bottom step of the deck was only two feet from a hemlock. Behind it grew the rest of the forest, dense and gigantic, and coated in moss. She closed her eyes, accepting the breeze against her warmed face and listening to the sounds of wildlife. The birds sang to her, and she imagined it was a welcome song.

“So how is it, working for a man like Mr. Clayton?” she asked, opening her eyes.

He chuckled, keeping his eyes low. He wiped a hand over his shiny, bald forehead. “I could ask you the same thing, working for a man like Mr. Vanderzee.”

“No one is like Mr. Vanderzee.”

“Well, let me assure you, no one is like Mr. Clayton. And nothing can compare to working for him.”

“How long have you?”

“I started working for his father when I was only eighteen. We were very good friends.”

“I hear Mr. Clayton is a lot like his father.”

“In looks, certainly.” He shook his head, his eyes distant, and chuckled to himself. “Most certainly in looks.” Her thoughts drifted again to the picture of Mr. Clayton’s father as a boy, the one that resembled him to a T. “But the old Mr. Clayton was quite a different person than the Mr. Clayton you know.”

“When did you come to Hemlock Veils?”

He sighed a relaxing sigh, reclining. “In 1965. His father, Joseph—Mr. Clayton’s grandfather—settled this town in 1920. It was simply meant to be a summer getaway, and was for quite some time. Then people began moving in, building upon it. Joseph died in the late nineteen-fifties, and Henry Senior and I moved here permanently in sixty-five. We’ve been here ever since, me with the Claytons, I mean.”

“You say you and Mr. Clayton Senior were good friends?”

“We were very close. We relied on each other’s support and advice, and…I miss that man.” He met her eyes. “You seem surprised by this, Elizabeth.”

“I just…from what Mr. Clayton said of his father, it’s hard to believe.”

His brow pulled together and he hesitated. “Mr. Clayton mentioned his father?”

“Briefly. Just this house and the reason his father had it built—to shun him and his mother. He’s bitter, whether he admits it or not.”

“And he should be.” Arne sighed. “It’s a complicated matter with the Clayton family. Put simply, the man I’m referring to is different than the man Henry speaks of. That’s all I can say.”

She chuckled.

“What is it?”

“I’m just imagining the verbal abuse you would get if he heard you call him Henry. Really, it’s hard to imagine him as Henry at all.”

Rather than amused, he seemed trapped in another distant, fond memory. He stared at his age-spotted hands, smiling just subtly. “Sometimes, he’s just Henry to me.”

That made her smile for some reason. “Were you here the first time the beast appeared? I think Eustace said it was that same year.”

“Yes,” he answered with grave eyes. They remained distant, but this time they were not lost in fond memories.

“Was it just as Eustace described?”

“To some, yes.”

Her brow tensed in question.

“The way events affect people are a matter of perspective, aren’t they, Elizabeth?”

She nodded.

“Well, to most, it was as awful as Eustace described. To others…worse.”

“To others?”

His smile hid something. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

Trying to hide her disappointment, she nodded. “Arne, may I ask what Mr. Clayton does for a living?” She straightened from the look on his face. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“It…is something best left to Mr. Clayton to answer.” He met her eyes, leaning forward on his elbows. “Tell me, why is it you’ve taken such an interest in Mr. Clayton?”

She straightened again, this time defensively. Ever so faintly, heat flushed her face. “I take an interest because he’s the one who owns everything here. He’s the one I have to answer to now. He’s the one everyone fears.” Her eyes narrowed. “Except you. I don’t see fear in you, Arne. Just…respect.” She half-smiled. “An unfathomable amount of respect, if you ask me.”

He chuckled, but sobered when he met her eyes, clasping his hands together as his elbows remained on his knees. “What about you, Elizabeth? There’s no fear in you either.”

“I’ve always thought it silly to fear a man.”

“Ah, but what about a beast?”

“That’s…different.”

“It’s horribly frightening—a creature most say represents the devil himself. Yet you don’t see that.”

She shrugged, looking to her feet as she set her empty glass on the deck and tucked a strand of hair that had strayed from her ponytail behind her ear.

“It’s all right, Elizabeth. You can confide in me.”

She met his eyes, believing that. Still she didn’t answer.

“You’re afraid I will judge you?”

“No. I don’t concern myself with the judgment of others.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“Because if the town knew I thought the beast was more of a victim than they were, I would get kicked out, especially by Mr. Clayton.”

“A victim?” he asked, flinching in surprise. “Interesting word choice.”

“I know I’m already labeled crazy, but…” She sighed again, and something in his eyes said her words were safe with him. “I just think whoever he is, he didn’t choose this. Maybe he deserved it at one point, but now…I don’t know, I see something in him…begging to get out.”

A faraway sadness resided in his eyes. “Your perspective is fascinating, to say the least.”

“Please, don’t tell anyone, Arne. Especially Mr. Clayton.”

“Don’t tell me what, Ms. Ashton?”

Elizabeth jumped from her chair, nearly knocking it over when she turned. Mr. Clayton stood on the other side of the railing with his hands in his pockets, his lower half disappearing beneath the deck. He wore a pale yellow button-down shirt, much more casual than his suits, and the top two buttons were unfastened. Even his hair fell more casually—not combed away from his face like usual. It was messier, freer, and in this manner it appeared longer. His level of attraction doubled, even as he glared at her. She gulped, cursing internally.